THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

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OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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THE   MOUNTEBANK 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

IDOLS 

JAFFERY 

VIVIETTE 

SEPTIMUS 

DERELICTS 

THE    USURPER 

STELLA    M ARIS 

WHERE   LOVE     IS 

THE    ROUGH    ROAD 

THE       RED     PLANET 

THE      WHITE       DOVE 

FAR-AWAY        STORIES 

SIMON       THE        JESTER 

A      STUDY      IN      SHADOWS 

A    CHRISTMAS      MYSTERY 

THE       WONDERFUL       YEAR 

THE     HOUSE     OF     BALTAZAR' 

THE        FORTUNATE          YOUTH 

THE       BELOVED        VAGABOND 

AT      THE      GATE      OF       SAMARIA 

THE       GLORY      OF       CLEMENTINA 

THE    MORALS    OF    MARCUS    ORDEYNE 

THE    DEMAGOGUE    AND    LADY    PHAYRE 

THE    JOYOUS    ADVENTURES    OF    ARISTIDE    PUJOL 


THE   MOUNTEBANK 


BY 

WILLIAM  J.   LOCKE 

AUTHOR  OP  "THE  HOUSE  OP  BALTAZAR,"  "THE  HOUGH  ROAD," 
"THE  RED  PLANET,"  "THE  WONDERFUL  YEAH,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:   JOHN   LANE   COMPANY 

LONDON:  JOHN  LANE,  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ2O,  BY 
INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ2I 
BY  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


THE  PLIMPTON.  PRESS 
WORWOOD-MASS-U-S-A 


THE  MOUNTEBANK 

k0 
CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  month  of  June,  1919,  I  received  a  long 
letter  from  Brigadier-General  Andrew  Lacka- 
day  together  with  a  bulky  manuscript. 
The  letter,  addressed  from  an  obscure  hotel  in      . 
Marseilles,  ran  as  follows:  — 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

On  the  occasion  of  our  last  meeting  when  I  kept 
you  up  to  an  ungodly  hour  of  the  morning  with  the  story 
of  my  wretched  affairs  to  which  you  patiently  listened 
without  seeming  bored,  you  were  good  enough  to  suggest 
that  I  might  write  a  book  about  myself,  not  for  the  sake 
of  vulgar  advertisement,  but  in  order  to  interest,  perhaps 
to  encourage,  at  any  rate  to  stimulate  the  thoughts  of 
many  of  my  old  comrades  who  have  been  placed  in  the 
same  predicament  as  myself.  Well,  I  can't  do  it.  You're 
a  professional  man  of  letters  and  don't  appreciate  the 
extraordinary  difficulty  a  layman  has,  not  only  in  writing 
a  coherent  narrative,  but  in  composing  the  very  sentences 
which  express  the  things  that  he  wants  to  convey.  Add 
to  this  that  English  is  to  me,  if  not  a  foreign,  at  any  rate, 
a  secondary  language  —  I  have  thought  all  my  life  in 
French,  so  that  to  express  myself  clearly  on  any  except 
the  humdrum  affairs  of  life  is  always  a  conscious  effort. 
Even  this  little  prelude,  in  my  best  style,  has  taken  me 
nearly  two  cigarettes  to  write;  so  I  gave  up  an  impos- 
sible task. 

But  I  thought  to  myself  that  perhaps  you  might  have 
the  time  or  the  interest  to  put  into  shape  a  whole  mass 
of  raw  material  which  I  have  slung  together  —  from  mem- 
ory (I  have  a  good  one),  and  from  my  diary.  It  may  seem 
odd  that  a  homeless  Bohemian  like  myself  should  have 
kept  a  diary;  but  I  was  born  methodical.  I  believe  my 
mastery  of  Army  Forms  gained  me  my  promotion!  Any- 
how you  will  find  in  it  a  pretty  complete  history  of  my 

career  up  to  date.     I  have  cut  out  the  war " 

5 


6  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Is  there  a  lusus  naturae  of  any  nationality  but 
English,  who  rising  from  Private  to  Brigadier-Gen- 
eral, could  write  six  hundred  and  seventy-three 
sprawling  foolscap  pages  purporting  to  contain  the 
story  of  his  life  from  eignteen-eighty  something  to 
June  nineteen  hundred  and  nineteen  and  deliber- 
ately omit,  as  if  it  were  neither  here  nor  there,  its 
four  and  a  half  years'  glorious  and  astounding 
episode? 

"/  have  cut  out  the  war!" 

On  looking  through  the  MS.  I  found  that  he  had 
cut  out  the  war,  in  so  far  as  his  military  experiences 
were  concerned.  In  khaki  he  showed  himself  to  be 
as  English  and  John  Bull  as  you  please;  and  how 
the  deuce  his  meteoric  promotion  occurred  and 
what  various  splendid  services  compelled  the  ex- 
hibition on  his  breast  of  a  rainbow  row  of  ribbons, 
are  matters  known  only  to  the  War  Office,  Andrew 
Lackaday  and  his  Maker.  Well  —  that  is  perhaps 
an  exaggeration  of  secrecy.  The  newspapers  have 
published  their  official  paragraphs.  Officers  who 
served  under  him  have  given  me  interesting  infor- 
mation. But  from  the  spoken  or  written  word  of 
Andrew  Lackaday  I  have  not  been  able  to  glean  a 
grain  of  knowledge.  That,  I  say,  is  where  the 
intensely  English  side  of  him  manifested  itself. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  private  life  that  he  led 
during  the  four  and  a  half  years  of  war,  and  that 
which  he  lived  before  and  after,  was  revealed  with 
a  refreshing  Gallic  lack  of  reticence  which  could 
only  proceed  from  his  French  upbringing. 

To  return  to  his  letter:  — 

I  have  cut  out  the  war.  Thousands  of  brainy  people 
will  be  spending  the  next  few  years  of  their  lives  telling 
you  all  about  it.  But  I  should  rather  like  to  treat  it  as 
a^  blank,  a  period  of  penal  servitude,  a  drugged  sleep  af- 
flicted with  nightmare,  a  bit  of  metempsychosis  in  the 
middle  of  normal  life  —  you  know  what  I  mean.  The 
thing  that  is  /  is  not  General  Lackaday.  It  is  Somebody 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  7 

Else.  So  I  have  given  you,  for  what  it  is  worth,  the  story 
of  Somebody  Else.  The  MS.  is  in  a  beast  of  a  muddle 
like  the  earth  before  the  Bon  Dieu  came  in  and  made 
His  little  arrangements.  Do  with  it  what  you  like.  At 
the  present  moment  I  am  between  the  Devil  and  the  Deep 
Sea.  I  am  hoping  that  the  latter  will  be  the  solution  of 
my  difficulties.  (By  the  way,  I'm  not  contemplating  sui- 
cide.) In  either  case  it  doesn't  matter.  ...  If  you  are 
interested  in  the  doings  of  a  spent  meteor,  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  write  to  you  from  time  to  time.  As  you  said, 
you  are  the  oldest  friend  I  have.  You  are  almost  the  only 
living  creature  who  knows  the  real  identity  of  Andrew 
Lackaday.  You  have  been  charming  enough  to  give  me 
not  only  the  benefit  of  your  experience,  riper  than  mine, 
of  a  man  of  the  world,  but  also  such  a  very  human  sym- 
pathy that  I  shall  always  think  of  you  with  sentiments 
of  affectionate  esteem. 

Yours  sincerely, 

ANDREW  LACKADAY 

Well.  There  was  the  letter,  curiously  composed; 
half  French,  half  English  in  the  turning  of  the 
phrase.  The  last  sentence  was  sheer  translation. 
But  it  was  sincere.  I  need  not  say  that  I  sent  a 
cordial  reply.  Our  correspondence  thenceforward 
became  intimate  and  regular. 

In  his  estimate  of  his  manuscript  from  a  literary 
point  of  view  the  poor  General  did  not  exaggerate. 
Anything  more  hopeless  as  a  continuous  narrative 
I  have  never  read.  But  it  supplied  facts,  hit  off 
odds  and  ends  of  character,  and — what  the  autobi- 
ography seldom  does  —  it  gave  the  ipsissima  verba  of 
conversations  written  in  helter-skelter  fashion  with 
flowing  pen,  sometimes  in  excellent  French,  some- 
times in  English,  which  beginning  in  the  elaborate 
style  of  his  letter  broke  down  into  queer  vernacular; 
it  was  charmingly  devoid  of  self-consciousness,  so 
that  the  man  as  he  was,  and  not  as  he  imagined 
himself  to  be  or  would  like  others  to  imagine  him, 
stood  ingenuously  disclosed. 

If  the  manuscript  had  been  that  of  a  total  stranger 


8  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

I  could  not  have  undertaken  the  task  of  the  Bon 
Dieu  making  His  little  arrangements  to  shape  the 
earth  out  of  chaos.  An  elderly  literary  dilettante, 
who  is  not  a  rabid  archaeologist,  has  an  indolent 
way  of  demanding  documents  clear  and  precise. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  some  months  before  I 
felt  the  courage  to  tackle  the  business.  But  know- 
ing the  man,  knowing  also  Lady  Auriol  and  having 
in  the  meantime  made  the  acquaintance  of  Made- 
moiselle Elodie  Figasso  and  Horatio  Bakkus,  play- 
ing, in  fact,  a  minor  role,  say,  that  of  Charles,  his 
friend,  in  the  little  drama  of  his  life,  I  eventually 
decided  to  carry  out  my  good  friend's  wishes.  ;  The 
major  part  of  my  task  has  been  a  matter  of  arrange- 
ment, of  joining  up  flats,  as  they  say  in  the  theatre, 
of  translation,  of  editing,  of  winnowing,  as  far  as 
my  fallible  judgment  can  decide,  [the  chaff  from  the 
grain  in  his  narrative,  and  of  relating  facts  which 
have  come  within  the  horizon  of  my  own  personal 
experience. 

I  begin  therefore  at  the  very  beginning. 

Many  a  year  ago,  when  the  world,  myself  in- 
cluded, was  young,  I  knew  a  circus.  This  does 
not  mean  that  I  knew  it  from  the  wooden  benches 
outside  the  ring.  I  knew  it  behind  the  scenes.  I 
was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  the  most  motley 
crowd  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  meet.  It 
was  a  famous  French  circus  of  the  classical  type 
that  has  by  now,  I  fear  me,  passed  away.  Its 
haute  ecole  was  its  pride,  and  it  demanded  for  its 
premiere  equestrienne  the  homage  due  to  the  great 
artists  of  the  world.  Bernhardt  of  the  Comedie 
Francaise  —  I  think  she  was  still  there  in  those 
far-off  days,  Patti  of  the  Opera  and  Mile  Renee 
Saint-Maur  of  the  Cirque  Rocambeau  were  three 
stars  of  equal  magnitude.  The  circus  toured 
through  France  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  It 
pitched  its  tent  —  what  else  could  it  do,  seeing  that 
municipal  ineptitude  provided  no  building  whereip 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  9 

could  be  run  chariot  races  of  six  horses  abreast? 
But  the  tent,  in  my  youthful  eyes,  confused  by  the 
naphtha  glares  and  the  violent  shadows  cast  on  the 
many  tiers  of  pink  faces,  loomed  as  vast  as  a  Roman 
amphitheatre.  It  was  a  noble  tent,  a  palace  of  a 
tent,  the  auditorium  being  but  an  inconsiderable 
section.  There  was  stabling  for  fifty  horses.  There 
were  decent  dressing-rooms.  There  was  a  green- 
room, with  a  wooden,  practicable  bar  running 
along  one  end,  and  a  wizened,  grizzled,  old  barman 
behind  it  who  supplied  your  wants  from  the  con- 
tents of  a  myriad  bottles  ranged  in  perfect  order  in 
some  obscure  nook  beneath  the  counter.  They  did 
things  in  the  great  manner  in  the  Cirque  Rocam- 
beau.  It  visited  none  but  first-class  towns  which 
had  open  spaces  worthy  of  its  magnificence.  It 
despised  one  or  two  night  stands.  The  Cirque 
Rocambeau  had  a  way  of  imposing  itself  upon  a 
town  as  an  illusory  permanent  institution,  a  week 
being  its  shortest  and  almost  contemptuous  sojourn. 
The  Cirque  Rocambeau  maintained  the  stateliness 
of  the  old  world. 

Now  the  Cirque  Rocambeau  fades  out  ©f  this 
story  almost  as  soon  as  it  enters  it.  But  it  affords 
the  coincidence  which  enables  this  story  to  be 
written.  For  if  I  had  not  known  the  Cirque  Rocam- 
beau, I  should  never  have  won  the  confidence  of 
Andrew  Lackaday  and  I  should  have  remained  as 
ignorant,  as  you  are,  at  the  present  moment,  of 
the  vicissitudes  of  that  worthy  man's  career.  : 

You  see,  we  met  as  strangers  at  a  country  house 
towards  the  end  of  the  war.  Chance  turned  the 
conversation  to  France,  where  he  had  lived  most  of 
his  life,  to  the  France  of  former  days,  to  my  own 
early  wanderings  about  that  delectable  land,  to  my 
boastful  accounts  of  my  two  or  three  months'  vaga- 
bondage with  the  Cirque  Rocambeau.  He  jumped 
as  if  I  had  thrown  a  bomb  instead  of  a  name  at 
him.  In  fact  the  bomb  would  have  startled  him  less. 


10  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"The  Cirque  Rocambeau?" 

"Yes." 

He  looked  at  me  narrowly.  "What  year  was 
that?" 

I  told  him. 

"Lord  Almighty,"  said  he,  with  a  gasp.  "Lord 
Almighty  I"  He  stared  for  a  long  time  in  front  of 
him  without  speaking.  Then  to  my  amazement 
he  said  deliberately:  "I  remember  you!  You  were 
a  sort  of  a  young  English  god  in  a  straw  hat  and 
beautiful  clothes,  and  you  used  to  take  me  for 
rides  on  the  clown's  pig.  The  clown  was  my  foster 
father.  And  now  I'm  commanding  a  battalion  in 
the  British  Army.  By  Gum!  It's  a  damn  funny 
world!" 

Memory  flashed  back  with  almost  a  spasm  of 


By  Gum!'  I  repeated.  "Why,  that  was 
what  my  old  friend  Ben  Flint  used  to  say  twenty 
times  an  hour!" 

It  was  a  shibboleth  proving  his  story  true.  And 
I  remembered  the  weedy,  ugly,  precocious  infant 
who  was  the  pride  and  spoiled  darling  of  that  circus 
crowd. 

Why  I,  a  young  gentleman  of  leisure,  fresh  from 
Cambridge,  chose  to  go  round  France  with  a  circus, 
is  neither  here  nor  there.  For  one  thing,  I  assure 
you  it  was  not  for  the  bright  eyes  of  Mile  Renee 
Saint-Maur  or  her  lesser  sister  luminaries.  Ben 
Flint,  the  English  clown,  classically  styled  "Au- 
guste"  in  the  arena,  and  his  performing  pig,  Billy, 
somehow  held  the  secret  of  my  fascination.  Ben 
Flint  mystified  me.  He  was  a  man  of  remarkable 
cultivation;  save  for  a  lapse  here  and  there  into 
North  Country  idiom,  and  for  a  trace  now  and 
then  of  North  Country  burr,  his  English  was  pure 
and  refined.  In  ordinary  life,  too,  he  spoke  excel- 
lent French,  although  in  the  ring  he  had  to  follow 
the  classical  tradition  of  the  English  clown,  and 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  11 

pronounce  his  patter  with  a  nerve-rasping  Britannic 
accent.  He  never  told  me  his  history.  But  there  he 
was,  the  principal  clown,  and  as  perfect  a  clown  as 
clown  could  be,  with  every  bit  of  his  business  at  his 
fingers'  ends,  in  a  great  and  important  circus.  Like 
most  of  his  colleagues,  he  knew  the  wide  world 
from  Tokio  to  Christiania;  but,  unlike  the  rest  of 
the  crowd,  whose  life  seemed  to  be  bounded  by  the 
canvas  walls  of  the  circus,  and  who  differentiated 
their  impressions  of  Singapore  and  Moscow  mainly 
in  terms  of  climate  and  alcohol,  Ben  Flint  had 
observed  men  and  things  and  had  recorded  and 
analysed  his  experiences,  so  that,  meeting  a  more 
or  less  educated  youth  like  myself  —  perhaps  a  rare 
bird  in  the  circus  world  —  standing  on  the  brink 
of  life,  thirsting  for  the  knowledge  that  is  not  sup- 
plied by  lectures  at  the  Universities,  he  must  have 
felt  some  kind  of  satisfaction  in  pouring  out,  for 
my  benefit,  the  full  vintage  of  his  wisdom. 

I  see  him  now,  squat,  clean-shaven,  with  merry 
blue  eyes  in  a  mug  of  a  face,  sitting  in  a  deck  chair, 
on  a  scrap  of  ragged  ground  forming  the  angle  be- 
tween the  row  of  canvas  stables  and  the  great  tent, 
a  cob  pipe  in  his  humorous  mouth,  a  thick  half 
litre  glass  of  beer  with  a  handle  to  it  on  the  earth 
beside  him,  and  I  hear  his  shrewd  talk  of  far-away 
and  mysterious  lands.  His  pretty  French  wife,  who 
knows  no  English,  charmingly  dishevelled,  un- 
corseted,  free,  in  a  dubious  peignoir  trimmed  with 
artificial  lace  —  she  who  moulded  in  mirific  tights, 
sea-green  with  reflections  of  mother-of-pearl,  like 
Venus  Anadyomene,  does  the  tight  rope  act  every 
afternoon  and  evening  —  sits  a  little  way  apart, 
busy  with  needle  and  thread  repairing  a  sorry  hand- 
ful of  garments  which  to-night  will  be  tense  with 
some  portion  of  her  shapely  body.  Between  them 
sprawls  on  his  side  Billy,  the  great  brown  pig  whom 
Ben  has  trained  to  stand  on  his  hind  legs,  to  jump 
through  hoops,  to  die  for  his  country.  .  .  . 


12  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"They  don't  applaud.  They  don't  appreciate 
you,  Billy,"  the  clown  would  say,  choosing  his  tune 
when  applause  was  scant.  "Show  them  what  you 
think  of  them." 

And  then  Billy  would  deliberately  turn  round 
and,  moving  in  a  semicircle,  present  his  stern  to 
the  delighted  audience.  .  .  '. 

There  lies  Billy,  the  pig,  the  most  human  pig 
that  ever  breathed,  adored  by  Ben  Flint,  who,  not 
having  given  the  beast  one  second's  pain  in  all  its 
beatific  life,  was,  in  his  turn,  loved  by  the  pig  as 
only  a  few  men  are  loved  by  a  dog  —  and  there, 
sitting  on  the  pig's  powerful  withers,  his  blue  smock 
full  of  wilted  daisies,  is  little  eight-year-old  tow- 
headed  Andrew  Lackaday  making  a  daisy  chain, 
which  eventually  he  twines  round  the  animal's 
semi-protesting  snout. 

Yes.  There  is  the  picture.  It  is  full  summer. 
We  have  lunched,  Madame  and  Ben  and  Andrew 
and  I,  at  the  little  cafe  restaurant  at  the  near-by 
straggling  end  of  the  town.  At  other  tables,  other 
aristocratic  members  of  the  troupe.  The  humbler 
have  cooked  their  food  in  the  vague  precincts  of  the 
circus.  We  have  returned  to  all  that  Ben  and  his 
wife  know  as  home.  It  is  one  o'clock.  At  two,  mati- 
nee. An  hour  of  blissful  ease.  We  are  in  the  shade 
of  the  great  tent;  but  the  air  is  full  of  the  heavy 
odour  of  the  dust  and  the  flowers  and  the  herbs  of 
the  South,  and  of  the  pungent  smell  of  the  long  row 
of  canvas  stables. 

I  call  little  Andrew.  He  dismounts  from  Billy 
the  pig,  and,  insolent  brat,  screws  an  imaginary 
eyeglass  into  his  eye,  which  he  contrives  to  keep 
contorted,  and  assuming  a  supercilious  expression 
and  a  languid  manner,  struts  leisurely  towards  us, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  thereby  giving  what 
I  am  forced  to  admit  is  an  imitation  of  myself 
perfect  in  its  burlesque.  Ben  Flint  roars  with 
laughter.  I  clutch  the  imp  and  throw  him  across 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  13 

my  knee  and  pretend  to  spank  him.  We  struggle 
lustily  till  Madame  cries  out: 

"But  cease,  Andre.  You  are  making  Monsieur 
too  hot." 

And  Andrew,  docile,  ceased  at  once;  but  stand- 
ing in  front  of  me,  his  back  to  Madame,  he  noise- 
lessly mimicked  Madame's  speech  with  his  lips,  so 
drolly,  so  exquisitely,  that  Ben  Flint's  hearty  laugh 
broke  out  again. 

"Just  look  at  the  little  devil!  By  Gum!  He  has 
a  fortune  in  him." 

I  learned  in  the  circus  as  much  about  Andrew  as 
he  knew  himself.  Perhaps  more;  for  a  child  of 
eight  has  lost  all  recollection  of  parents  who  died 
before  he  was  two.  They  were  circus  folk,  English, 
trapeze  artists,  come,  they  said,  from  a  long  tour 
in  Australia,  where  Andrew  was  born,  and  their 
first  European  engagement  was  in  the  Cirque  Ro- 
cambeau.  Their  stay  was  brief;  their  end  tragic. 
Lackaday  Pere  took  to  drink,  which  is  the  last  thing 
a  trapeze  artist  should  do.  Brain  and  hand  at 
rehearsal  one  day  lost  co-ordination  by  the  thou- 
sandth part  of  a  second  and  Lackaday  Mere,  swing- 
ing from  her  feet  upwards,  missed  the  anticipated 
grip,  and  fell  with  a  thud  on  the  ground,  breaking 
her  spine.  Whereupon  Lackaday  Pere  went  out  and 
hanged  himself  from  a  cross-beam  in  an  empty  stable. 

Thus,  at  two  years  old,  Andrew  Lackaday  started 
life  on  his  own  account.  From  that  day,  he  was 
alone  in  the  world.  Nothing  in  his  parents'  modest 
luggage  gave  clue  to  kith  or  kin.  Ben  Flint  who, 
as  a  fellow-countryman,  went  through  their  effects, 
found  not  even  one  letter  addressed  to  them,  found 
no  sign  of  their  contact  with  any  human  being  liv- 
ing or  dead.  They  called  themselves  professionally 
"The  Lackadays."  Whether  it  was  their  real  name 
or  not,  no  one  in  the  world  which  narrowed  itself 
within  the  limits  of  the  Cirque  Rocambeau,  could 
possibly  tell.  But  it  was  the  only  name  that  Andrew 


14  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

had,  and  as  good  as  any  other.  It  was  part  of  his 
inheritance,  the  remainder  being  ninety-five  francs 
in  cash,  some  cheap  trinkets,  a  couple  of  boxes  of 
fripperies  which  were  sold  for  a  song,  a  tattered  copy 
of  Longfellow's  Poems,  and  a  brand  new  gilt-edged 
Bible,  carefully  covered  in  brown  paper,  with  "For 
Fanny  from  Jim"  inscribed  on  the  flyleaf.  From 
which  Andrew  Lackaday,  as  soon  as  his  mind  could 
grasp  such  things,  deduced  that  his  mother's  name 
was  Fanny,  and  his  father's  James.  But  Ben 
Flint  assured  me  that  Lackaday  called  his  wife 
Myra,  while  she  called  him  Alf,  by  which  names 
they  were  familiarly  known  by  their  colleagues. 
So  who  were  Fanny  and  Jim,  if  not  Andrew's  par- 
ents, remained  a  mystery. 

Meanwhile  there  was  the  orphan  Andrew  Lacka- 
day rich  in  his  extreme  youth  and  the  fortune  above 
specified,  and  violently  asserting  his  right  to  live 
and  enjoy.  Meanwhile,  too,  Ben  Flint  and  his  wife 
had  lost  their  pig  Bob,  Billy's  predecessor.  Bob 
had  grown  old  and  past  his  job  and  become  afflicted 
with  an  obscure  porcine  disease,  possibly  senile 
decay,  for  which  there  was  no  remedy  but  merciful 
euthanasia.  The  Flints  mourned  him,  desolate. 
They  had  not  the  heart  to  buy  another.  They  were 
childless,  pigless.  But  behold!  There,  to  their 
hand  was  Andrew,  fatherless,  motherless.  On  an 
occasion,  just  after  the  funeral,  for  which  Ben  Flint 
paid,  when  Madame  was  mothering  the  tiny  Andrew 
in  her  arms,  and  Ben  stood  staring,  lost  in  yearning 
for  the  lost  and  beloved  pig,  she  glanced  up  and 
said: 

"  Tiens,  why  should  he  not  replace  Bob,  ce  petit 
cochon?" 

Ben  Flint  slapped  his  thigh* 

"By  Gum!"  said  he,  and  the  thing  was  done. 
The  responsibility  of  self  dependence  for  life  and 
enjoyment  was  removed  from  the  shoulders  of 
young  Andrew  Lackaday  for  many  years  to  come. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  15 

In  the  course  of  time,  when  the  'child's  [etat  civil, 
as  a  resident  in  France,  had  to  be  declared,  and  this 
question  of  nationality  became  of  great  importance 
in  after  years  —  Madame  said: 

"Since  we  have  adopted  him,  why  not  give  him 
our  name?" 

But  Ben,  with  the  romanticism  of  Bohemia, 
replied: 

"  No.  His  name  belongs  to  him.  If  he  keeps  it, 
he  may  be  able  to  find  out  something  about  his 
family  He  might  be  the  heir  to  great  possessions. 
One  never  knows.  It's  a  clue  anyway.  Besides," 
he  added,  the  sturdy  North  countryman  asserting 
itself,  "I'm  not  giving  my  name  to  any  man  save 
the  son  of  my  loins.  Its  a  name  where  I  come 
from  that  has  never  been  dishonoured  for  a  couple 
of  hundred  years." 

"But  it  is  just  as  you  like,  rnon  cheri,"  said 
Madame,  who  was  the  placidest  thing  in  France. 

For  thirty  years  I  had  forgotten  all  this;  but 
the  "By  Gum!"  of  Colonel  Lackaday  wiped  out 
the  superscription  over  the  palimpsest  of  memory 
and  revealed  in  startling  clearness  all  these  impres- 
sions of  the  past. 

"Of  course  we're  fond  of  the  kid,"  said  Ben  Flint. 
"He's  free  from  vice  and  as  clever  as  paint.  He's 
a  born  acrobat.  Might  as  well  try  to  teach  a  duck 
to  swim.  It  comes  natural.  Heredity  of  course. 
There's  nothing  he  won't  be  able  to  do  when  I'm 
finished  with  him.  Yet  there  are  some  things  which 
lick  me  altogether.  He's  an  ugly  son  of  a  gun.  His 
father  and  mother,  by  the  way,  were  a  damn  good- 
looking  pair.  But  their  hands  were  the  thick 
spread  muscular  hands  of  the  acrobat.  Where  the 
deuce  did  he  get  his  long,  thin  delicate  fingers 
from?  Already  he  can  pass  a  coin  from  back  to 

front '  he  flicked  an  illustrative  conjuror's 

hand  —  "at  eight  years  old.  To  teach  him  was  as 


16  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

easy  as  falling  off  a  log.  Still,  that's  mechanical. 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  where  did  he  get  his 
power  of  mimicry?  That  artistic  sense  of  express- 
ing personality?  Ton  my  soul,  he's  damn  well 
nearly  as  clever  as  Billy." 

During  the  talk  which  followed  the  discovery  of 
our  former  meeting,  I  reported  to  Colonel  Lackaday 
these  encomiums  of  years  ago.  He  smiled  wistfully. 

"Most  of  the  dear  old  fellow's  swans  were  geese, 
I'm  afraid,"  said  he.  "And  I  was  the  awkwardest 
gosling  of  them  all.  They  tried  for  years  to  teach 
me  the  acrobat's  business;  but  it  was  no  good. 
They  might  just  as  well  have  spent  their  pains  on 
a  rheumatic  young  giraffe." 

I  looked  at  him  and  smiled.  The  simile  was  not 
inapposite.  How,  I  asked  myself,  could  the  man 
into  which  he  had  developed,  ever  have  become  an 
acrobat?  He  was  the  leanest,  scraggiest  long  thing 
I  have  ever  seen.  Six  foot  four  of  stringy  sinew  and 
bone,  with  inordinately  long  legs,  around  which  his 
khaki  slacks  flapped,  as  though  they  hid  stilts  in- 
stead of  human  limbs.  His  arms  swung  long  and 
ungainly,  the  sleeves  of  his  tunic  far  above  the  bony 
wrist,  as  though  his  tailor  in  cutting  the  garment 
had  repudiated  as  fantastic  the  evidence  of  his 
measurements.  Yet,  when  one  might  have  expected 
to  find  hands  of  a  talon-like  knottiness,  to  corre- 
spond with  the  sparse  rugosity  of  his  person,  one 
found  to  one's  astonishment  the  most  delicately 
shaped  hands  in  the  world,  with  long,  sensitive, 
nervous  fingers,  like  those  of  the  thousands  of 
artists  who  have  lived  and  died  without  being  able 
to  express  themselves  in  any  artistic  medium.  In 
a  word,  the  fingers  of  the  artiste  manque.  I  have 
told  you  what  Ben  Flint,  shrewd  observer,  said 
about  his  hands,  as  a  child  of  eight.  They  were  the 
same  hands  thirty  years  after.  To  me,  elderly  ob- 
server of  human  things,  they  seemed,  as  he  moved 
them  so  gracefully  —  the  only  touch  of  physical 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  17 

grace  about  him  —  to  confer  an  air  of  pathos  on 
the  ungainly  man,  to  serve  as  an  index  to  a  soul 
which  otherwise  could  not  be  divined. 

From  this  lean  length  of  body  rose  a  long  stringy 
neck  carrying  a  small  head  surmounted  by  closely 
cropped  carotty  thatch.  His  skin  was  drawn  tight 
over  the  framework  of  his  face,  as  though  his  Maker 
had  been  forced  to  observe  the  strictest  economy 
in  material.  His  complexion  was  brick  red  over  a 
myriad  freckles.  His  features  preserved  the  irregu- 
lar ugliness  of  the  child  I  half  remembered,  but  it 
was  redeemed  by  light  blue  candid  eyes  set  in  a 
tight  net  of  humorous  lines,  and  by  a  large,  mobile 
mouth,  which,  though  it  could  shut  grimly  on  occa- 
sions, yet,  when  relaxed  in  a  smile,  disarmed  you 
by  its  ear-to-ear  kindliness,  and  fascinated  you  by 
the  disclosure  of  two  rows  of  white  teeth  perfectly 
set  in  the  healthy  pink  streaks  of  gum.  He  had  the 
air  of  a  man  physically  fit,  inured  to  hardship;  the 
air,  too,  in  spite  of  his  gentleness,  of  a  man  accus- 
tomed to  command.  In  the  country  house  at  which 
we  met  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  to  speculate  on 
his  social  standing,  as  human  frailty  determined 
that  one  should  do  in  the  case  of  so  many  splendid 
and  gallant  officers  of  the  New  Army.  His  manners 
were  marked  by  shy  simplicity  and  quiet  reserve. 
It  was  a  shock  to  preconceived  ideas  to  find  him 
bred  in  a  circus,  even  in  so  magnificent  a  circus  as 
the  Cirque  Rocambeau,  and  brought  up  by  a  clown, 
even  by  such  a  superior  clown  as  Ben  Flint. 

"And  my  old  friend?"  I  asked.  For  I  had  lost 
knowledge  of  Ben  practically  from  the  time  I  ended 
my  happy  vagabondage.  Maxima  mea  culpa. 

"He  died  when  I  was  about  sixteen,"  replied 
Colonel  Lackaday,  "and  his  wife  a  year  or  so  later." 

"And  then?"  I  queried,  eager  for  autobiograph- 
ical revelations. 

"Then,"  said  he,  "I  was  a  grown  up  man,  able 
to  fend  for  myself." 


IS  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

r  That  was  all  I  could  get  out  of  him,  without 
allowing  natural  curiosity  to  outrun  discretion.  He 
changed  the  conversation  to  the  war,  to  the  France 
about  which  I,  a  very  elderly  Captain  —  have  I 
not  confessed  to  early  twenties  thirty  years  before? 

—  was  travelling  most  uncomfortably,  doing  queer 
odd  jobs  as  a  nominal  liaison  officer  on  the  Quarter- 
master-General's staff.    His  intimacy  with  the  coun- 
try was  amazing.    Multiply  Sam  Weller's  extensive 
and  peculiar  knowledge  of  London  by  a  thousand, 
and  you  shall  form  some  idea  of  Colonel  Lackaday's 
acquaintance  with  the  inns  of  provincial  France. 
He  could  even  trot  out  the  family  skeletons  of  the 
innkeepers.    In  this  he  became  animated  and  amus- 
ing.     His   features    assumed    an    actor's   mobility 
foreign  to  their  previous  military  sedateness,  and 
he  used  his  delicate  hands  in  expressive  gestures. 
In  parenthesis  I  may  say  we  had  left  the  week-end 
party  at  their  bridge  or  flirtation  (according  to  age) 
in  the  drawing-room,  neither  pursuits  having  for 
us  great  attraction,  in  spite  of  Lady  Auriol  Dayne, 
of  whom  more  hereafter,  and  we  had  found  our 
way  to  cooling  drinks  and  excellent  cigars  in  our 
host's  library.     It  was  the  first  time  we  had  ex- 
changed more  than  a  dozen  words,  for  we  had  only 
arrived  that  Saturday  afternoon.     But  after  the 
amazing   mutual   recognition,    we   sat   luxuriously 
chaired,  excellent  friends,  and  I,  for  my  part,  en- 
jeying  his  society. 

"Ail"  said  he,  "Montelimar.  I  know  that  hotel. 
Infect.  And  the  patron,  eh?  You  remember  him. 
Forty  stone.  Phoo!" 

The  gaunt  man  sat  up  in  his  chair  and  by  what 
mesmeric  magic  it  happened  I  know  not,  but  before 
my  eyes  grew  the  living  image  of  the  gross,  shapeless 
creature  who  had  put  me  to  bed  in  wringing  wet 
sheets. 

"And  when  you  complained,  he  looked  like  this 

—  eh?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  19 

He  did  look  like  that.  Bleary-eyed,  drooping- 
mouthed,  vacant.  I  recollected  that  the  fat  mis- 
creant had  the  middle  of  his  upper  lip  curiously 
sunken  into  the  space  of  two  missing  front  teeth. 
The  middle  of  Colonel  Lackaday's  upper  lip  was 
sucked  in. 

"And  he  said:  'What  would  you  have,  Monsieur? 
Vest  la  guerre?" 

The  horrible  fat  man,  hundreds  of  miles  away 
from  the  front,  with  every  convenience  for  drying 
sheets,  had  said  those  identical  words.  And  in  the 
same  greasy,  gasping  tone. 

I  gaped  at  the  mimetic  miracle.  It  was  then  that 
the  memory  of  the  eight-year-old  child's  travesty 
of  myself  flashed  through  my  mind. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  I,  "but  haven't  you  turned  this 
marvellous  gift  of  yours  to  —  well  to  practical  use?" 

He  grinned  in  his  honest,  wide-mouthed  way, 
showing  his  incomparable  teeth. 

"Don't  you  think,"  said  he,  "I'm  the  model  of 
a  Colonel  of  the  Rifles?" 

He  grinned  again  at  the  cloud  of  puzzlement  on 
my  face,  and  rose  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Time  for  turning  in.  Will  you  do  me  a  favour? 
Don't  give  me  away  about  the  circus."  .j< 

Somehow  my  esteem  for  him  sank  like  thermome- 
ter mercury  plunged  into  ice.  I  had  thought  him, 
with  the  blazing  record  of  achievement  across  his 
chest,  a  man  above  such  petty  solicitude.  His  mild 
blue  eyes  searched  my  thoughts. 

"I  don't  care  a  damn,  Captain  Hylton,"  said  he, 
in  a  tone  singularly  different  from  any  that  he  had 
used  in  our  pleasant  talk  —  "if  anybody  knows  I 
was  born  in  a  stable.  A  far  better  man  than  I  once 
had  that  privilege.  But  as  it  happens  that  I  am 
going  out  to  command  a  brigade  next  week,  it  would 
be  to  the  interest  of  my  authority  and  therefore  to 
that  of  the  army,  if  no  gossip  led  to  the  establish- 
ment of  my  identity*" 


20  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"I  assure  you,  sir "  I  began  stiffly  —  I  was 

only  a  Captain,  he,  but  for  a  formality  or  two,  a 
Brigadier-General. 

He  clapped  his  hands  on  my  shoulders  —  and  I 
swear  his  ugly,  smiling  face  was  that  of  an  angel. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  "so  long  as  you  re- 
gard me  as  an  honest  cuss,  nothing  matters  in  the 
world." 

I  went  to  bed  with  the  conviction  that  he  was  as 
honest  a  cuss  as  I  had  ever  met. 


CHAPTER  II 

OUR  hosts,  the  Verity-Stewarts,  were  pleasant 
people,  old  friends  of  mine,  inhabiting  a 
Somerset  manor-house  which  had  belonged 
to  their  family  since  the  days  of  Charles  the  Second. 
They  were  proud  of  their  descent;  the  Stewart 
being  hyphenated  to  the  first  name  by  a  genealogi- 
cally enthusiastic  Verity  of  a  hundred  years  ago; 
but  the  alternative  to  their  motto  suggested  by  the 
son  of  the  house,  Captain  Charles  Verity-Stewart, 
"The  King  can  do  no  wrong,"  found  no  favour  in  the 
eyes  of  his  parents,  who  had  lived  remote  from  the 
democratic  humour  of  the  officers  of  the  New  Army. 

It  was  to  this  irreverent  Cavalier,  convalescent  at 
home  from  a  machine-gun  bullet  through  his  shoul- 
der, and  hero-worshipper  of  his  Colonel,  that  Andrew 
Lackaday  owed  his  shy  appearance  at  Mansfield 
Court.  He  was  proud  of  the  boy,  a  gallant  and 
efficient  soldier;  Lady  Verity-Stewart  had  couched 
her  invitation  in  such  cordial  terms  that  a  refusal 
would  have  been  curmudgeonly;  and  the  Colonel 
was  heartily  tired  of  spending  his  hard-won  leave 
horribly  alone  in  London. 

Perhaps  I  may  seem  to  be  explaining  that  which 
needs  no  explanation.  It  is  not  so.  In  England 
Colonel  Lackaday  found  himself  in  the  position  of 
many  an  officer  from  the  Dominions  overseas.  He 
had  barely  an  acquaintance.  Hitherto  his  leave 
had  been  spent  in  France.  But  one  does  not  take 
a  holiday  in  France  when  the  War  Officer  com- 
mands attention  at  Whitehall.  He  was  very  glad 
to  go  to  the  War  Office,  suspecting  the  agreeable 
issue  of  his  visit.  Yet  all  the  same  he  was  a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land,  living  on  the  sawdust  and  wanned- 

21 


22  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

up  soda-water  of  unutterable  boredom.  He  had 
spent  —  so  he  said  —  his  happiest  hours  in  London, 
at  the  Holborn  Empire.  Three  evenings  had  he 
devoted  to  its  excellent  but  not  soul-enthraUing 
entertainment. 

"In  the  name  of  goodness,  why?/'  I  asked  puzzled. 

"There  was  a  troupe  of  Japanese  acrobats,"  said 
he.  "In  the  course  of  a  roving  life  one  picks  up 
picturesque  acquaintances.  Hosimura,  the  head  of 
them,  is  a  capital  fellow." 

This  he  told  me  later,  for  our  friendship,  begun 
when  he  was  eight  years  old,  had  leaped  into  sudden 
renewal;  but  without  any  idea  of  exciting  my  com- 
miseration. Yet  it  made  me  think. 

That  a  prospective  Brigadier-General  should  find 
his  sole  relief  from  solitude  in  the  fugitive  com- 
panionship of  a  Japanese  acrobat  seemed  to  me 
pathetic. 

Meanwhile  there  he  was  at  Mansfield  Court,  lean 
and  unlovely,  but,  as  I  divined,  lovable  in  his  un- 
affected simplicity,  the  very  model  of  a  British  field- 
officer.  At  dinner  on  Saturday  evening,  he  had  sat 
between  his  hostess  and  Lady  Auriol  Dayne.  To 
the  former  he  had  talked  of  the  things  she  most 
loved  to  hear,  the  manifold  virtues  of  her  son.  There 
were  fallings  away  from  the  strict  standards  of  mili- 
tary excellence,  of  course;  but  he  touched  upon 
them  with  his  wide,  charming  smile,  condoned 
them  with  the  indulgence  of  the  man  prematurely 
mellowed  who  has  kept  his  hold  on  youth,  so  that 
Lady  Verity-Stewart  felt  herself  in  full  sympathy 
with  Charles's  chief,  and  bored  the  good  man  con- 
siderably with  accounts  of  the  boy's  earlier  esca- 
pades. To  Lady  Auriol  he  talked  mainly  about 
the  war,  of  which  she  appeared  to  have  more  com- 
plete information  than  he  himself. 

"I  suppose  you  think,"  she  said  at  last  with  a 
swift  side  glance,  "that  I'm  laying  down  the  law 
about  things  I'm  quite  ignorant  of." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  23 

He  said:  "Not  at  all.  You're  in  a  position  t© 
judge  much  better  than  I.  You  people  outside  the 
wood  can  see  it,  in  its  entirety.  We  who  are  in  the 
middle  of  the  horrid  thing  can't  see  it  for  the  trees." 

It  was  this  little  speech  so  simple,  so  courteous 
and  yet  not  lacking  a  touch  of  irony,  that  first  made 
Lady  Auriol,  in  the  words  which  she  used  when  tell- 
ing me  of  it  afterwards,  sit  up  and  take  notice. 

Bridge,  the  monomania  which  tainted  Sir  Julius 
Verity-Stewart's  courtly  soul,  pinned  Lady  Auriol 
down  to  the  green-covered  table  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  But  the  next  day  she  set  herself  to  satisfy 
her  entirely  unreprehensible  curiosity  concerning 
Colonel  Lackaday. 

Lady  Auriol,  born  with  even  more  curiosities  than 
are  the  ordinary  birthright  of  a  daughter  of  Eve, 
had  spent  most  of  her  life  in  trying  to  satisfy  them. 
In  most  cases  she  had  been  successful.  Here  be  it 
said  that  Lady  Auriol  was  twenty-eight,  unmarried, 
and  almost  beautiful  when  she  took  the  trouble  to 
do  her  hair  and  array  herself  in  becoming  costume. 
As  to  maiden's  greatest  and  shyest  curiosity,  well 
—  as  a  child  of  her  epoch  —  she  knew  so  much 
about  the  theory  of  it  that  it  ceased  to  be  a  curiosity 
at  all.  Besides,  love  —  she  had  preserved  a  girl's 
faith  in  beauty  —  was  a  psychological  mystery  not 
to  be  solved  by  the  cold  empirical  methods  which 
could  be  employed  in  the  solution  of  other  problems. 
I  must  ask  you  to  bear  this  in  mind  when  judging 
Lady  Auriol.  She  had  once  fancied  herself  in  love 
with  an  Italian  poet,  an  Antinous-like  young  man 
of  impeccable  manners,  boasting  an  authentic  pedi- 
gree which  lost  itself  in  the  wolf  that  suckled  Romu- 
lus and  Remus.  None  of  your  vagabond  ballad- 
mongers.  A  guest  when  she  first  met  him  of  the 
Italian  Ambassador.  To  him,  Prince  Charming, 
knight  and  troubadour,  she  surrendered.  He  told 
her  many  wonders  of  fairy  things.  He  led  her  into 
lands  where  woman's  soul  is  free  and  dances  on 


24  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

buttercups.  He  made  exquisite  verses  to  her  auburn 
hair.  But  when  she  learned  that  these  same  verses 
were  composed  in  a  flat  in  Milan  which  he  shared 
with  a  naughty  little  opera  singer  of  no  account, 
she  dismissed  Prince  Charming  offhand,  and  be- 
took herself  alone  to  the  middle  of  Abyssinia  to 
satisfy  her  curiosity  as  to  the  existence  there  of 
dulcimer-playing  maidens  singing  of  Mount  Abora 
to  whom  Coleridge  in  his  poem  assigns  such  haunt- 
ing attributes. 

Lady  Auriol,  in  fact,  was  a'great  traveller.  She 
had  not  only  gone  all  over  the  world  —  anybody 
can  do  that  —  but  she  had  gone  all  through  the 
world.  Alone,  she  had  taken  her  fate  in  her  hands. 
In  comparison  with  other  geographical  exploits,  her 
journey  through  Abyssinia  was  but  a  trip  to  Mar- 
gate. She  had  wandered  about  Turkestan.  She 
had  crossed  China.  She  had  fooled  about  Sagha- 
lien.  ...  In  her  schooldays,  hearing  of  the  Sanjak 
of  Novi  Bazar,  she  had  imagined  the  Sanjak  to  be 
a  funny  little  man  in  a  red  cap.  Biper  knowledge, 
after  its  dull  exasperating  way,  had  brought  dis- 
illusion; but  like  Mount  Abora  the  name  haunted 
her  until  she  explored  it  for  herself.  When  she 
came  back,  she  knew  the  Sanjak  of  Novi  Bazar 
like  her  pocket. 

Needless  to  say  that  Lady  Auriol  had  thrown  all 
her  curiosities,  her  illusions  —  they  were  hydra- 
headed  —  her  enthusiasms  and  her  splendid  vitality 
into  the  war.  She  had  organized  and  directed  as 
Commandant  a  great  hospital  in  the  region  of 
Boulogne.  "I'm  a  woman  of  business,"  she  told 
Lackaday  and  myself,  "not  a  ministering  angel 
with  open-worked  stockings  and  a  Red  Cross  of 
rubies  dangling  in  front  of  me.  Most  of  the  day  I 
sit  in  a  beastly  office  and  work  at  potatoes  and  beef 
and  army-forms.  I  can't  nurse,  though  I  daresay 
I  could  if  I  tried;  but  I  hate  amateurs.  No  ama- 
teurs in  my  show,  I  assure  you.  For  my  job  I  flatter 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  25 

myself  I'm  trained.  A  woman  can't  knock  about 
the  waste  spaces  of  the  earth  by  herself,  head  a 
rabble  of  pack-carrying  savages,  without  gaining 
some  experience  in  organization.  In  fact,  when  I'm 
not  at  my  own  hospital,  which  now  runs  on  wheels, 
I'm  employed  as  a  sort  of  organizing  expert  —  any 
old  where  they  choose  to  send  me.  Do  you  think 
I'm  talking  swollen-headedly,  Colonel  Lackaday?" 

She  turned  suddenly  round  on  him,  with  a  defiant 
flash  of  her  brown  eyes,  which  was  one  of  her  char- 
acteristics —  the  woman,  for  all  her  capable  modern- 
ity, instinctively  on  the  defensive. 

"  It's  only  a  fool  who  apologizes  for  doing  a  thing 
well,"  said  Lackaday. 

"He  couldn't  do  it  well  if  he  was  a  fool,"  Lady 
Auriol  retorted. 

"You  never  know  what  a  fool  can  do  till  you  try 
him,"  said  Lackaday. 

It  was  a  summer  morning.  Nearly  all  the  house- 
party  had  gone  to  church.  Lady  Auriol,  Colonel 
Lackaday  and  I,  smitten  with  pagan  revolt,  lounged 
on  the  shady  lawn  in  front  of  the  red-brick,  gabled 
manor  house.  The  air  was  full  of  the  scent  of  roses 
from  border  beds  and  of  the  song  of  thrushes  and 
the  busy  chitter-chatter  of  starlings  in  the  old  wal- 
nut trees  of  the  further  garden.  It  was  the  restful 
England  which  the  exiled  and  the  war-weary  used 
so  often  to  conjure  up  in  their  dreams. 

"  You  mean  a  fool  can  be  egged  on  to  do  great  things 
and  still  remain  a  fool?"  asked  Lady  Auriol  lazily. 

Lackaday  smiled  —  or  grinned  —  it  is  all  the 
same  —  a  weaver  of  fairy  nothings  could  write  a 
delicious  thesis  on  the  question;  is  Lackaday 's 
smile  a  grin  or  is  his  grin  a  smile?  Anyhow,  what- 
ever may  be  the  definition  of  the  special  ear-to-ear 
white-teeth-revealing  contortion  of  his  visage,  it 
had  in  it  something  wistful,  irresistible.  You  will 
find  it  in  the  face  of  a  tickled  baby  six  months  old. 
He  touched  his  row  of  ribbons. 


26  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"Foi7a,"saidhe. 

"It's  polite  to  say  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said, 
regarding  him  beneath  her  long  lashes.  "But,  sup- 
posing it  true  for  the  sake  of  argument,  I  should 
very  much  like  to  know  what  kind  of  a  fool  you 
are." 

Lying  back  in  her  long  cane  chair,  an  incarnation 
of  the  summer  morning,  fresh  as  the  air  in  her  white 
blouse  and  skirt,  daintily  white  hosed  and  shod,  her 
auburn  hair  faultlessly  dressed  sweeping  from  the 
side  parting  in  two  waves,  one  bold  from  right  to 
left,  the  other  with  coquettish  grace,  from  left  to 
right,  the  swiftness  of  her  face  calmed  into  lazy 
contours,  the  magnificent  full  physique  of  her  body 
relaxed  as  she  lay  with  her  silken  ankles  crossed  on 
the  nether  chair  support,  her  hands  fingering  a  long 
necklace  of  jade,  she  appealed  to  me  as  the  most 
marvellous  example  I  had  ever  come  across  of  the 
woman's  power  of  self-transmogrification. 

The  last  time  I  had  seen  her  was  in  France,  wet 
through  in  old  short-skirted  kit,  with  badly  rolled 
muddy  puttees,  muddier  heavy  boots,  a  beast  of  a 
dripping  hat  pinned  through  rain-sodden  strands  of 
hair,  streaks  of  mud  over  her  face,  ploughing  through 
mud  to  a  British  Field  Ambulance,  yet  erect,  hawk- 
eyed,  with  the  air  of  a  General  of  Division.  There 
sex  was  wiped  out.  During  our  chance  meeting, 
one  of  the  many  queer  chance  meetings  of  the  war, 
a  meeting  which  lasted  five  minutes  while  I  accom- 
panied her  to  her  destination,  we  spoke  as  man  to 
man.  She  took  a  swig  out  of  my  brandy  flask.  She 
asked  me  for  a  cigarette  —  smoked  out,  she  said. 
I  was  in  nearly  the  same  predicament,  having  only, 
at  the  moment,  for  all  tobacco,  the  pipe  I  was  then 
smoking.  "For  God's  sake,  like  a  good  chap,  give 
me  a  puff  or  two,"  she  pleaded.  And  so  we  walked 
on  through  the  rain  and  mud,  she  pipe  in  mouth, 
her  shoulders  hunched,  her  hands,  under  the  scorn- 
fully hitched  up  skirt,  deep  in  her  breeches  pockets. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  27 

And  now,  this  summer  morning,  there  she  lay,  all 
woman,  insidiously,  devilishly  alluring  woman,  al- 
most voluptuous  in  her  self-confident  abandonment 
to  the  fundamental  conception  of  feminine  existence. 

Lackaday's  eyes  rested  on  her  admiringly.  He 
did  not  reply  to  her  remark,  until  she  added  in  a 
bantering  tone: 

"Tell  me." 

Then  he  said,  with  an  air  of  significance:  "The 
most  genuine  brand  you  can  imagine,  I  assure  you." 

"A  motley  fool,"  she  suggested  idly. 

At  that  moment,  Evadne,  the  thirteen-year-old 
daughter  of  the  house,  who,  as  she  told  me  soon 
afterwards,  in  the  idiom  of  her  generation,  had 
given  the  divine-services  a  miss,  carried  me  off  to 
see  a  litter  of  Sealyham  puppies.  That  inspection 
over,  we  reviewed  rabbits  and  fetched  a  compass 
round  about  the  pigsties  and  crossed  the  orchard 
to  the  chicken's  parade,  and  passed  on  to  her  own 
allotment  in  the  kitchen  garden,  where  a  few  moth- 
eaten  cabbages  and  a  wilting  tomato  in  a  planted 
pot  seemed  to  hang  degraded  heads  at  our  approach, 
and,  lingering  through  the  rose  garden,  we  even- 
tually emerged  on  the  further  side  of  the  lawn. 

"I  suppose  you  want  to  go  and  join  them,"  she 
said  with  a  jerk  of  her  bobbed  head  in  the  direction 
of  Lady  Auriol  and  Colonel  Lackaday. 

"Perhaps  we  ought,"  said  I. 

"They  don't  want  us  —  you  can  bet  your  boots," 
said  she. 

"How  do  you  know  that,  young  woman  of 
wisdom?" 

She  sniffed.    "Look  at  'em." 

I  looked  at  'em;  mole-visioned  masculine  fifty 
seeing  through  the  eyes  of  feminine  thirteen;  and, 
seeing  very  distinctly  indeed,  I  said: 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

"If  you  wouldn't  mind  very  much,"  she  replied 
eagerly,  her  interest  in,  or  her  scorn  of,  elderly 


28  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

romance  instantly  vanishing,  "let  us  go  back  to 
the  peaches.  That's  the  beauty  of  Sundays.  That 
silly  old  ass  Jenkins"  —  Jenkins  was  the  head  gard- 
ener —  "is  giving  his  family  a  treat,  instead  of  com- 
ing down  on  me.  See?" 

Evadne  linked  her  arm  in  mine.  Again  I  saw. 
She  had  already  eaten  two  peaches.  Who  was  I 
to  stand  in  the  way  of  her  eating  a  third  or  a  fourth 
or  a  fifth?  With  the  after  consequences  of  her  crime 
against  Jenkins,  physical  and  otherwise,  I  had  noth- 
ing to  do.  It  was  the  affair  of  her  parents,  her  doc- 
tor, her  Creator.  But  the  sight  of  the  rapturous 
enjoyment  on  her  face  when  her  white  teeth  bit 
into  the  velvet  bloom  of  the  fruit  sped  one  back 
to  one's  own  youth  and  procured  a  delight  not  the 
less  intense  because  it  was  vicarious. 

"Come  along,"  said  I. 

"You're  a  perfect  lamb,"  said  she. 

Before  the  perfect  lamb  was  led  to  the  peach 
slaughter,  he  looked  again  across  the  lawn.  Colonel 
Lackaday  had  moved  his  chair  very  close  to  Lady 
Auriol's  wicker  lounge,  so  that  facing  her,  his  head 
was  but  a  couple  of  feet  from  hers.  They  talked  not 
so  much  animatedly  as  intimately.  Lackaday 's  face 
I  could  not  see,  his  back  being  turned  to  me;  I  saw 
Lady  Auriol's  eyes  wide,  full  of  earnest  interest,  and 
compassionate  admiration.  I  had  no  idea  that  her 
eyes  could  melt  to  such  softness.  It  was  a  revela- 
tion. No  woman  ever  looked  at  a  man  like  that, 
unless  she  was  an  accomplished  syren,  without  some 
soul-betrayal.  I  am  a  vieux  routier,  an  old  cam- 
paigner in  this  world  of  men  and  women.  Time  was 
when  —  but  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  story. 
At  any  rate  I  think  I  ought  to  know  something 
about  women's  eyes. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  idiotic?"  asked 
Evadne,  dragging  me  round. 

"I  think  I  did  once,"  said  I. 

"When  tvas  that?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  29 

"Ah!"  said  I. 

"Do  tell  me,  Uncle  Tony." 

I,  who  have  seen  things  far  more  idiotic  a  thou- 
sand times,  racked  my  brain  for  an  answer  that 
would  satisfy  the  child. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  I  began,  "your  father  and 
mother,  when  they  were  engaged " 

She  burst  out:  "But  they  were  young.  It  isn't 
the  same  thing.  Aunt  Auriol's  as  old  as  anything. 
And  Colonel  Lackaday's  about  sixty." 

"My  dear  Evadne,"  said  I.  "I  happen  to  know 
that  Colonel  Lackaday  is  thirty-eight. ' 

Thirteen  shrugged  its  slim  shoulders.  "It's  all 
the  same,"  it  said. 

We  went  to  the  net-covered  wall  of  ripe  and 
beauteous  temptation,  trampling  over  Jenkins's  beds 
of  I  know  not  what,  and  ate  forbidden  fruit.  At 
least  Evadne  did,  until,  son  of  Adam,  I  fell. 

"Do  have  a  bite.  It's  lovely.  And  I've  left  you 
the  blushy  side." 

What  could  I  do?  There  she  stood,  fair,  slim, 
bobbed-haired,  green-kirtled,  serious-eyed,  carelessly 
juicy-lipped,  holding  up  the  peach.  I,  to  whom  all 
wall-fruit  is  death,  bit  into  the  side  that  blushed. 
She  anxiously  watched  my  expression. 

"Topping,  isn't  it?" 

"Yum,  yum,"  said  I. 

"Isn't  it?"  she  said,  taking  back  the  peach. 

That's  the  beauty  of  childhood.  It  demands  no 
elaborate  expression.  Simplicity  is  its  only  coinage. 
A  rhapsody  on  the  exquisiteness  of  the  fruit's  flavour 
would  have  bored  Evadne  stiff.  Her  soul  yearned 
for  the  establishment  between  us  of  a  link  of  appre- 
ciation. "Yum,  yum,"  said  I,  and  the  link  was 
instantly  supplied. 

She  threw  away  a  peach  stone  and  sighed. 

"Let's  go." 

^Why?"  tasked. 

"  I'm  not  looking  for  any  more  trouble,"  she  replied. 


30  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

We  returned  to  the  lawn  and  Lady  Auriol  and 
Colonel  Lackaday.  Not  a  hole  could  be  picked  in 
the  perfect  courtesy  of  their  greeting;  but  it  lacked 
passionate  enthusiasm.  Evadne  and  I  sat  down, 
and  our  exceedingly  dull  conversation  was  soon 
interrupted  by  the  advent  of  the  church  goers. 

Towards  lunch  time  Lackaday  and  I,  chance 
companions,  strolled  towards  the  house. 

"What  a  charming  woman,"  he  remarked. 

"Lady  Verity-Stewart,"  said  I,  with  a  touch  of 
malice  —  our  hostess  was  the  last  woman  with 
whom  he  had  spoken  —  "is  a  perfect  dear." 

"So  she  is,  but  I  meant  Lady  Auriol." 

"I've  known  her  since  she  was  that  high,"  I  said 
spreading  out  a  measuring  hand.  "Her  develop- 
ment has  been  most  interesting." 

A  shade  of  annoyance  passed  over  the  Colonel's 
ugly  good-humoured  face.  To  treat  the  radiant 
creature  who  had  swum  into  his  ken  as  a  subject 
for  psychological  observation  savoured  of  profanity. 
With  a  smile  I  added: 

"She's  one  of  the  very  best." 

His  brow  cleared  and  his  teeth  gleamed  out  my 
tribute. 

"I've  met  very  few  English  ladies  in  the  course 
of  my  life,"  said  he  half  apologetically.  "The  other 
day,  a  brother  officer  finding  me  fooling  about  Pall 
Mall  insisted  on  my  lunching  with  him  at  the  Carl- 
ton.  He  had  a  party.  I  sat  next  to  a  Mrs.  Tanker- 
ville,  who  I  gather  is  a  celebrity." 

"She  is,"  said  I.  "And  she  said,  'You  must  really 
come  and  have  tea  with  me  to-morrow.  I've  a 
crowd  of  most  interesting  people  coming."' 

"She  did,"  cried  Lackaday,  regarding  me  with 
awestricken  eyes,  as  Saul  must  have  looked  at  the 
Witch  of  Endor.  "But  I  didn't  go.  I  couldn't  talk 
to  her.  I  was  as  dumb  as  a  fish.  Oh,  damned  dumb! 
And  the  dumber  I  was  the  more  she  talked  at  me. 
I  had  risen  from  the  ranks,  hadn't  I?  She  thought 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  31 

careers  like  mine  such  a  romance.  I  just  sat  and 
sweated  and  couldn't  eat.  She  made  me  feel  as  if 
she  was  going  to  exhibit  me  as  the  fighting  skeleton 
in  her  freak  museum.  If  ever  I  see  that  woman 
coming  towards  me  in  the  street,  I'll  turn  tail  and 
run  like  hell." 

I  laughed.  "You  mustn't  compare  Mrs.  Tanker- 
ville  with  Lady  Auriol  Dayne." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  I  should  think  not ! "  he  cried  with  a 
fervent  gesture.  "Lady  Auriol " 

Our  passage  from  the  terrace  across  the  threshold 
of  the  drawing-room  cut  short  a  possible  rhapsody. 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  in  the  panelled  Elizabethan 
entrance  hall,  I  came  across  Lady  Auriol  in  tweed 
coat  and  skirt  and  business-like  walking  boots,  a 
felt  hat  on  her  head  and  a  stout  stick  in  her  hands. 

"Whither  away?"  I  asked. 

"  Colonel  Lackaday  and  I  are  off  for  a  tramp,  over 
to  Glastonbury."  Her  lips  moved  ironically.  "Like 
to  come?" 

"God  forbid!"  I  cried. 

"Thought  you  wouldn't,"  she  said,  drawing  on  a 
wash-leather  gauntlet,  "but  when  I'm  in  Society, 
I  do  try  to  be  polite." 

"My  teaching  and  example  for  the  last  twenty 
years,"  said  I,  "have  not  been  without  effect." 

"You're  a  master  of  deportment,  my  dear  Tony." 
I  was  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  but  she  had 
always  called  me  Tony,  and  had  no  more  respect 
for  my  grey  hairs  than  her  cousin  Evadne.  "Tell 
me,"  she  said,  with  a  swift  change  of  manner,  "do 
you  know  anything  about  Colonel  Lackaday?" 

"We  met  here  as  strangers,"  said  I,  "and  I  can 
only  say  that  he  impresses  me  as  being  a  very  gal- 
lant gentleman." 

Her  face  beamed.  She  held  out  her  hand.  "I'm 
so  glad  you  think  so."  She  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Good  Lord!  I'm  a  minute  late.  He's  outside. 
I  loathe  unpunctuality.  So  long,  Tony." 


32  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

She  waved  a  careless  farewell  and  strode  out. 

In  the  evening  she  gave  Sir  Julius  to  understand 
that,  for  aught  she  cared,  he  could  go  into  a  corner 
and  play  Bridge  by  himself,  thus  holding  herself 
free,  as  it  appeared  to  my  amused  fancy,  for  any 
pleasanter  eventuality.  In  a  few  moments  Colonel 
Lackaday  was  sitting  by  her  side.  I  drew  a  chair 
to  a  bridge-table,  and  idly  looked  over  my  hostess's 
hand.  Presently,  being  dummy,  she  turned  to  me, 
with  a  little  motion  of  her  head  towards  the  pair 
and  whispered: 

"Those  two  —  Auriol  and  don't  you  think 

it's  rather  rapid?" 

"My  dear  Selina,"  said  I.  "What  would  you 
have?  'C'est  la  guerre."' 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  rather  rapid,  this  intimacy  between  the 
odd  assorted  pair  —  the  high-bred  woman  of 
fervid  action  and  the  mild  and  gawky  Colonel 
born  in  a  travelling  circus.  Holding  the  key  to  his 
early  life,  and  losing  myself  in  conjecture  as  to  his 
subsequent  career  until  he  found  himself  possessed 
of  the  qualities  that  make  a  successful  soldier,  I 
could  not  help  noticing  the  little  things,  unperceived 
by  a  generous  war  society,  which  pathetically  proved 
that  his  world  and  that  of  Lady  Auriol,  for  all  her 
earth-wide  Bohemianism,  were  star  distances  apart. 
Little  tiny  things  that  one  feels  ashamed  to  record. 
His  swift  glance  round  to  assure  himself  of  the  par- 
ticular knife  and  fork  he  should  use  at  a  given  stage 
of  the  meal  —  the  surreptitious  pushing  forward  on 
the  plate,  of  the  knife  which  he  had  leaned,  French 
fashion,  on  the  edge;  his  queer  distress  on  entering 
the  drawing-room  —  his  helplessness  until  the  inevi- 
table and  unconscious  rescue,  for  he  was  the  hon- 
oured guest;  the  restraint,  manifest  to  me,  which 
he  imposed  on  his  speech  and  gestures.  Everyone 
loved  him  for  his  simplicity  of  manners.  In  fact 
they  were  natural  to  the  man.  He  might  have  saved 
himself  a  world  of  worry.  But  his  trained  observa- 
tion had  made  him  aware  of  the  existence  of  a 
thousand  social  solecisms,  his  sensitive  character 
shrank  from  their  possible  committal,  and  he  em- 
ployed his  mimetic  genius  as  an  instrument  of  salva- 
tion. And  then  his  English  —  his  drawing-room 
English  —  was  not  spontaneous.  It  was  thought 
out,  phrased,  excellent  academic  English,  not  the 
horrible  ordinary  lingo  that  we  sling  at  each  other 
across  a  dinner-table;  the  English,  though  without 

33 


34 

a  trace  of  foreign  accent,  yet  of  one  who  has  spent 
a  lifetime  in  alien  lands  and  has  not  met  his  own 
tongue  save  on  the  printed  page;  of  one,  therefore, 
who  not  being  sure  of  the  shade  of  slang  admissible 
in  polite  circles,  carefully  and  almost  painfully 
avoids  its  use  altogether. 

Yet  all  through  that  long  week-end  —  we  were 
pressed  to  stay  till  the  Wednesday  morning  —  no 
one,  so  far  as  I  know,  suspected  that  Colonel  Lacka- 
day  found  himself  in  an  unfamiliar  and  puzzling 
environment. 

His  appointment  to  the  Brigade  came  on  the 
Tuesday.  He  showed  me  the  letter,  during  a  morn- 
ing stroll  in  the  garden. 

"Don't  tell  anybody,  please,"  said  he. 

"Of  course  not."  I  could  not  repress  an  ironical 
glance,  thinking  of  Lady  Auriol.  "If  you  would 
prefer  to  make  the  announcement  your  own  way." 

He  gasped,  looking  down  upon  me  from  his  lean 
height.  '  My  dear  fellow  —  it's  the  very  last  thing 
I  want  to  do.  I've  told  you  because  I  let  the  thing 
out  a  day  or  two  ago  —  in  peculiar  circumstances 
—  but  it's  in  confidence." 

"Confidence  be  hanged,"  said  I. 

Heaven  sent  me  Evadne  —  just  escaped  from 
morning  lessons  with  her  governess,  and  scuttling 
across  the  lawn  to  visit  her  Sealyhams.  I  whistled 
her  to  heel.  She  raced  up. 

"  If  you  were  a  soldier  what  would  you  do  if  you 
were  made  a  General?" 

She  countered  me  with  the  incredulous  scorn  bred 
of  our  familiarity. 

"You  haven't  been  made  a  General?" 

"I  haven't,"  I  replied  serenely.  "But  Colonel 
Lackaday  has." 

She  looked  wide-eyed  up  into  Lackaday's  face. 

"Is  that  true?" 

I  swear  he  blushed  through  his  red  sun-glaze. 

"Since  Captain  Hylton  says  so " 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  35 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  perfect  manners  and 
said: 

"I'm  so  glad.  My  congratulations."  Then,  be- 
fore the  bewildered  Lackaday  could  reply,  she  tossed 
his  hand  to  the  winds. 

"There'll  be  champagne  for  dinner  and  I'm  com- 
ing down,"  she  cried  and  fled  like  a  doe  to  the  house. 
At  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room  she  turned. 

"Does  Cousin  Auriol  know?" 

"Nobody  knows,"  I  said. 

She  shouted:   "Good  egg!"  and  disappeared. 

I  turned  to  the  frowning  and  embarrassed 
Lackaday. 

"Your  modesty  doesn't  appreciate  the  pleasure 
that  news  will  give  all  those  dear  people.  They've 
shown  you  in  the  most  single-hearted  way  that 
they're  your  friends,  haven't  they?" 

"They  have,"  he  admitted.  "But  it's  very  extra- 
ordinary. I  don't  belong  to  their  world.  I  feel  a 
sort  of  impostor." 

"With  this  — and  all  these?" 

I  flourished  the  letter  which  I  still  held,  and  with 
it  touched  the  rainbow  on  his  tunic.  His  features 
relaxed  into  his  childish  ear-to-ear  grin. 

"It's  all  so  incomprehensible  —  here  —  in  this 
old  place  —  among  these  English  aristocrats  —  the 
social  position  I  step  into.  I  don't  know  whether 
you  can  quite  follow  me." 

"As  a  distinguished  soldier,"  said  I,  "apart  from 
your  charming  personal  qualities,  you  command 
that  position." 

He  screwed  up  his  mobile  face.  "I  can't  under- 
stand it.  It's  like  a  nightmare  and  a  fairy-tale 
jumbled  up  together.  On  the  outbreak  of  war  I 
came  to  England  and  joined  up.  In  a  few  months 

I  had  a  commission.    I  don't  know "  he  spread 

out  his  ungainly  arm  —  "I  fell  into  the  metier  — 
the  business  of  soldiering.  It  came  easy  to  me. 
Except  that  it  absorbed  me  body  and  soul,  I  can't 


36  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

see  that  I  had  any  particular  merit.  Whatever  I 
have  done,  it  would  have  been  impossible,  in  the 
circumstances,  not  to  do.  Out  there  I'm  too  busy 
to  think  of  anything  but  my  day's  work.  As  for 
these  things"  -he  touched  his  ribbons  —  "I  put 
them  up  because  I'm  ordered  to.  A  matter  of  dis- 
cipline. But  away  from  the  Army  I  feel  as  though 
I  were  made  up  for  a  part  which  I'm  expected  to 
play  without  any  notion  of  the  words.  I  feel  just 
as  I  would  have  done  five  years  ago  if  I  had  been 
dressed  like  this  and  planted  here.  To  go  about 
now  disguised  as  a  General  only  adds  to  the  feel- 
ing." 

"If  you'll  pardon  me  for  saying  so,"  said  I,  "I 
think  you're  super-sensitive.  You  imagine  yourself 
to  be  the  same  man  that  you  were  five  years  ago. 
You're  not.  You're  a  different  human  being  alto- 
gether. Men  with  characters  like  yours  must  suffer 
a  sea-change  in  this  universal  tempest." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  he,  "for  what  will  become  of 
me  when  it's  all  over?  Everything  must  come  to 
an  end  some  day  —  even  the  war." 

I  laughed.  "Don't  you  see  how  you  must  have 
changed?  Here  you  are  looking  regretfully  to  the 
end  of  the  war.  If  it  were  only  bloodless  you  would 
like  it  to  go  on  for  ever.  Who  knows  whether  you 
wouldn't  eventually  wear  two  batons  instead  of  the 
baton  and  sword." 

"I'm  not  an  ambitious  man,  if  you  mean  that," 
said  he,  soberly.  "Besides  this  war  business  is  far 
too  serious  for  a  man  to  think  of  his  own  interests. 
Suppose  a  fellow  schemed  and  intrigued  to  get  high 
rank  and  then  proved  inefficient  —  it  would  mean 
death  to  hundreds  or  thousands  of  his  men.  As  it 
is,  I  assure  you  I'm  not  cock-a-whoop  about  com- 
manding a  brigade.  I  was  a  jolly  sight  happier 
with  a  platoon." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  I,  "other  people  are  cock-a- 
whoop.  Look  at  them." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  37 

The  household,  turned  out  like  a  guard  by  Evadne, 
emerged  in  a  body  from  the  house.  Sir  Julius 
beamed  urbanely.  Lady  Verity-Stewart  almost  fell 
on  the  great  man's  neck.  Young  Charles  broke  into 
enthusiastic  and  profane  congratulations.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  eloquent  compliment  his  speech 
was  disgraceful;  but  I  loved  the  glisten  in  the  boy's 
eyes  as  he  gazed  on  his  hero.  A  light  also  gleamed 
in  the  eyes  of  Lady  Auriol.  She  shook  hands  with 
him  in  her  direct  fashion. 

"I'm  glad.  So  very  very  glad."  Perhaps  I  alone 
—  except  Lackaday  —  detected  a  little  tremor  in 
her  voice.  "Why  didn't  you  want  us  to  know?" 

Instinctively  I  caught  Evadne's  eye.  She  winked 
at  me,  acknowledging  thereby  that  she  had  divulged 
the  General's  secret.  But  by  what  feminine  process 
of  divination  had  she  guessed  it?  Charles  came  to 
his  chief's  rescue. 

"The  General  couldn't  go  around  shouting  'I'm 
to  command  a  brigade  mother,  I'm  to  command  a 
brigade,'  could  he?" 

"He  might  have  stuck  on  his  badges  and  walked 
in  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  It  would  have  been 
such  fun  to  see  who  would  have  spotted  them  first." 

Thus  Evadne,  immediately  called  to  order  by  Sir 
Julius.  The  hero  said  very  little.  What  in  his 
modesty  could  the  good  fellow  say?  But  it  was 
obvious  that  the  sincere  and  spontaneous  tributes 
pleased  him.  Sir  Julius,  after  the  suppression  of 
Evadne,  made  him  the  little  tiniest  well-bred  ghost 
of  an  oration.  That  the  gallant  soldier  under  whom 
his  son  had  the  distinguished  honour  to  serve  should 
receive  the  news  of  his  promotion  under  his  roof 
was  a  matter  of  intense  gratification  to  the  whole 
household. 

It  was  a  gracious  scene  —  the  little  group,  on  the 
lawn  in  shade  of  the  old  manor  house,  so  intimate, 
so  kindly,  so  genuinely  emotional,  yet  so  restful  in 
its  Engh'sh  restraint,  surrounding  the  long,  lank, 


38  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

khaki-clad  figure  with  the  ugly  face,  who,  after 
looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  them  in  a  puzzled 
sort  of  way,  drew  himself  up  and  saluted. 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  he,  in  reply  to  Sir 
Julius.  "If  I  have  the  same  loyalty  in  my  brigade 
as  I  had  in  my  old  regiment,"  he  glanced  at  Charles, 
"I  shall  be  a  very  proud  man." 

That  ended  whatever  there  was  of  ceremony. 
Lady  Auriol  drew  me  aside. 

"Come  for  a  stroll." 

"To  see  the  Sealyhams  and  the  rabbits?" 

"  No,  Tony.  To  talk  of  our  friend.  He  interests 
me  tremendously." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  I. 

We  entered  the  rose  garden  heavy  with  the  full 
August  blooms. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  I.    "Talk  away." 

"If  you  have  a  bit  of  sense  in  you,  it  would  be 
you  who  would  talk.  If  you  were  a  bit  simpatico 
you  would  at  once  set  the  key  of  the  conversation." 

"All  of  which  implied  abuse  means  that  you're 
dying  to  know,  through  the  medium  of  subtle  and 
psychological  dialogue,  which  is  entirely  beyond  my 
brain  power,  whether  you're  not  just  on  the  verge 
of  wondering  if  you're  not  on  the  verge  of  falling 
in  love  with  Colonel  Lackaday." 

"You  put  it  with  your  usual  direct  brutality " 

"Well,"  said  I.     "Are  you?" 

"Ami  what?" 

"  Dying  to  know  etcetera,  etcetera  —  I  am  not 
addicted  to  vain  repetition." 

She  sighed,  tried  to  pick  a  black  crimson  Victor 
Hugo,  pricked  her  fingers  and  said  "Damn!"  With 
my  penknife  I  cut  the  stalk  and  handed  her  the 
rose,  which  she  pinned  on  her  blouse. 

"I  suppose  I  am,"  she  eventually  replied.  Then 
she  caught  me  by  the  arm.  "Look  here,  Tony,  do 
be  a  dear.  You  re  old  enough  to  be  my  ancestor 
and  by  all  accounts  you've  had  a  dreadful  past. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  39 

Do  tell  me  if  I'm  making  an  ass  of  myself.  I  only 
did  it  once,"  she  went  on,  without  giving  me  time 
to  answer.  "You  know  all  about  it  —  Vanucci, 
the  little  beast.  I  needn't  put  on  frills  with  you. 
Since  then  I  swore  off  that  sort  of  thing.  I've  gone 
about  in  maiden  meditation  and  man's  breeches, 
fancy  free.  I've  loved  lots  of  men  just  as  I've  loved 
lots  of  women  —  as  friends,  comrades.  I'm  level- 
headed and,  I  think,  level-hearted.  I  haven't  gone 
about  like  David  in  his  wrath,  saying  that  all  men 
are  liars.  They're  not.  They're  just  as  good  as 
women,  if  not  better.  I've  no  betrayed  virgin's 
grouch  against  men.  But  I've  made  myself  too  busy 
to  worry  about  sex.  It's  no  use  talking  tosh.  Sex  is 
the  root  of  the  whole  sentimental,  maudlin  ' 

"But  tremulous  and  bewildering  and  nerve-rack- 
ing and  delicious  and  myriad-adjectived  soul-con- 
dition," I  interrupted,  "known  generally  as  love. 
Ninety-nine  point  nine  repeater  per  cent  of  the 
world's  literature  has  been  devoted  to  its  analysis. 
It's  therefore  of  some  importance.  It's  even  the 
vital  principle  of  the  continuity  of  the  human  race." 

"I'm  perfectly  aware  of  it." 

"Then  why,  my  dear,  resent,  as  you  seem  to  do, 
the  inevitable  reassertion,  in  your  own  case,  of  the 
vital  principle?" 

She  laughed.  "Chassez  le  nature!,  il  revient  au 
galop.  But  that's  just  it.  Is  it  a  gallop  or  is  it  a 
crawl?  I  tell  you,  I  thought  myself  immune  for 
many  years.  But  now,  these  last  two  or  three  days 
I'm  beginning  to  feel  a  perfect  idiot.  A  few  minutes 
ago  if  the  whole  lot  of  you  hadn't  been  standing 
round,  I  think  I  should  have  cried.  Just  for  silly 
gladness.  After  all  there  are  thousands  of  Brigadier- 
Generals." 

"To  be  accurate,  not  more  than  a  few  hundreds." 

"Hundreds  or  thousands,  what  does  it  matter?" 
she  cried  impatiently.  "What's  Hecuba  to  me 
or  I  to  Hecuba?"  Few  women  have  the  literary 


40  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

sense  of  apposite  quotation  —  but  no  matter.  She 
went  on.  "What's  one  Brigadier-General  to  me 
or  I  [to  one  Brigadier-General?  And  yet  —  there 
it  is.  I'm  beginning  to  fear  lest  this  particular 
Brigadier-General  may  mean  a  lot  to  me.  So  I 
come  back  to  my  original  question.  Am  I  making 

n  IP'v  5» 

an  ass  ol  my  sell  P 

"  One  can't  answer  that  question,  my  dear  Auriol," 
said  I,  "without  knowing  how  far  your  fears, 
feelings  and  all  the  rest  of  it  are  reciprocated." 

"Suppose  I  think  they  are?" 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is:  'God  bless  you  my  chil- 
dren.' But,"  I  added,  after  a  pause,  "  I  must  warn  you 
that  your  budding  idyll  is  not  passing  unnoticed." 

She  snapped  her  fingers.  "I've  lived  my  private 
life  in  public  too  long  to  care  a  hang  for  that.  I'm 
only  concerned  about  my  own  course  of  action. 
Shall  I  go  on,  or  shall  I  pull  myself  up  with  a  jerk?" 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

She  walked  on  for  a  few  yards  without  replying. 
I  glanced  at  her  and  saw  that  the  colour  had  come 
into  her  cheeks,  and  that  her  eyes  were  downcast. 
At  last  she  said: 

"Now  that  I'm  a  woman  again,  I  should  like  to 
get  some  happiness  out  of  it.  I  should  like  to  give 
happiness,  too,  full-handed."  She  flashed  up  and 
took  my  arm  and  pressed  it.  "I  could  do  it,  Tony." 

"I  know  you  could,"  said  I. 

After  which  the  conversation  became  more  inti- 
mate. Anybody,  to  look  at  us,  as  we  walked,  arm 
in  arm,  round  the  paths  of  the  rose  garden,  would 
have  taken  us  for  lovers.  Of  course  she  wanted 
none  of  my  advice.  Her  frank  and  generous  nature 
felt  the  imperious  need  of  expansion.  I,  to  whom 
she  could  talk  as  to  a  sympathetic  wooden  idol, 
happened  to  be  handy.  I  don't  think  she  could 
have  talked  in  the  same  way  to  a  woman,  I  don't 
think  she  would  have  talked  so  even  to  me,  who 
had  taken  her  pick-a-back  round  about  her  nursery, 


THE   MOUNTEBANK  41 

if  I  had  not  with  conviction  qualified  Lackaday  as 
a  gallant  gentleman. 

Eventually  we  came  down  to  the  practical  aspect 
of  a  situation,  as  old  as  Romance  itself.  The  valor- 
ous and  gentle  knight  of  hidden  lineage  and  the 
Earl's  daughter.  Not  daring  to  aspire,  and  ignorant 
of  the  flame  he  has  kindled  in  the  high-born  bosom, 
he  rides  away  without  betraying  his  passion,  leav- 
ing the  fair  owner  of  the  bosom  to  pine  in  lonely 
ignorance. 

"At  this  time  of  day,  it's  all  such  damn  non- 
sense," said  Lady  Auriol. 

I  pointed  out  to  her  that  chivalrous  souls  still 
beautified  God's  earth  and  that  such  damn  non- 
sense could  not  be  other  than  the  essence  of  their 
being.  To  this  knightly  company  Colonel  Lackaday 
might  well  belong.  On  the  other  hand,  there  was 
she,  the  same  old  proud  Earl's  daughter.  For  all 
her  modernity,  her  independence,  her  democratic 
sympathies,  she  remained  a  great  lady.  She  had 
little  fortune;  but  she  had  position  and  an  ancient 
name.  Her  father,  the  impoverished  fourteenth 
Earl  of  Mountshire,  and  the  thirtieth  Baron  of 
something  else,  refused  to  sit  among  the  canaille 
of  the  present  House  ,of  Peers.  He  bred  shorthorns 
and  Berkshire  pigs,  which  he  disposed  of  profitably, 
and  grew  grapes  and  melons  for  Covent  Garden, 
read  the  lessons  in  church  and  wrote  letters  to  the 
Times  about  the  war  on  which  the  late  Guy  Earl  of 
Warwick  would  have  rather  prided  himself  when 
he  took  a  fancy  to  make  a  King. 

"The  dear  old  idiot,"  said  Lady  Auriol.  "He 
belongs  to  the  time  of  Nebuchadnezzar." 

But,  all  the  same,  in  spite  of  her  flouting,  her 
birth  assured  her  a  social  position  from  which  she 
could  be  thrown  by  nothing  less  than  outrageous 
immorality  or  a  Bolshevist  revolution.  That  Lacka- 
day, to  whom  the  British  Peerage,  in  the  ordinary 
way,  was  as  closed  a  book  as  the  Talmud,  realized 


42  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

her  high  estate  I  was  perfectly  aware.  Dear  and 
garrulous  Lady  Verity-Stewart  had  given  him  at 
dinner  the  whole  family  history  —  she  herself  was 
a  Dayne  —  from  the  time  of  Henry  I.  I  was  sitting 
on  the  other  side  of  her  and  heard  and  amused 
myself  by  scanning  the  expressionless  face  of  Lacka- 
day  who  listened  as  a  strayed  aviator  might  listen 
to  the  social  gossip  of  the  inhabitants  of  Mars. 
Anyhow  he  left  the  table  with  the  impression  that 
the  Earl  of  Mountshire  was  the  most  powerful  noble 
in  England  and  that  his  hostess  and  her  cousin, 
Lady  Auriol,  regarded  the  Royal  Family  as  up- 
starts and  only  visited  Buckingham  Palace  in  order 
to  set  a  good  example  to  the  proletariat. 

"I'm  sure  he  does,"  said  I,  after  summarizing 
Lady  Verity-Stewart's  monologue. 

"The  family  has  been  the  curse  of  my  life,"  said 
Auriol.  "If  I  hadn't  anticipated  them  —  or  is  it 
it?  —  by  telling  them  to  go  to  the  devil,  they  would 
have  disowned  me  long  ago.  Now  they're  afraid 
of  me,  and  I've  got  the  whip  hand.  A  kind  of  black- 
mail; so  they  let  me  alone. ' 

"But  if  you  made  a  mesalliance,  as  they  call  it," 
said  I,  "they'd  be  down  upon  you  like  a  cartload 
of  bricks." 

"Bricks?"  she  retorted,  with  a  laugh.  "A  cart- 
load of  puff-balls.  There  isn't  a  real  brick  in  the 
whole  obsolete  structure.  I  could  marry  a  beggar 
man  to-morrow  and  provided  he  was  a  decent  sort 
and  didn't  get  drunk  and  knock  me  about  and  pick 
his  teeth  with  his  fork,  I  should  have  them  all 
around  me  and  the  beggar  man  in  a  week's  time, 
trying  to  save  face.  They'd  move  heaven  and  earth 
to  make  the  beggar  man  acceptable.  They  know 
that  if  they  didn't,  I'd  be  capable  of  going  about 
with  him  like  a  raggle-taggle  gipsy  —  and  bring 
awful  disgrace  on  them." 

"All  that  may  be  true,"  said  I,  "but  the  modest 
Lackaday  doesn't  realize  it." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  43 

"I'll  put  sense  into  him,"  replied  Lady  Auriol. 
And  that  was  the  end,  conclusive  or  not,  of  the 
conversation. 

In  the  afternoon  they  went  off  for  a  broiling  walk 
together.  What  they  found  to  say  to  each  other,  I 
don't  know.  Lady  Auriol  let  me  no  further  into  her 
confidence,  and  my  then  degree  of  intimacy  with  the 
General  did  not  warrant  the  betrayal  of  my  pardon- 
able curiosity  as  to  the  amount  of  sense  put  into 
him  by  the  independent  lady. 

Now,  from  what  I  have  related,  it  may  seem 
that  Lady  Auriol  had  brought  up  all  her  storm 
troops  for  a  frontal  attack  on  the  position  in  which 
the  shy  General  lay  entrenched.  This  is  not  the 
case.  There  was  no  question  of  attack  or  siege  or 
any  military  operation  whatever  on  either  side. 
The  blessed  pair  just  came  together  like  two  drops 
of  quicksilver.  Each  recognized  in  the  other  a 
generous  and  somewhat  lonely  soul;  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  major  experiences  of  life  and,  with  that, 
a  craving  for  something  bigger  even  than  the  war, 
which  would  give  life  its  greater  meaning.  She, 
born  on  heights  that  looked  contemptuously  down 
upon  a  throne,  he  born  almost  in  a  wayside  ditch, 
their  intervening  lives  a  mutual  mystery,  they  met 
—  so  it  seemed  to  me,  then,  as  I  mused  on  the 
romantical  situation  —  on  some  common  plane  not 
only  of  adventurous  sympathy  but  of  a  humanity 
simple  and  sincere.  From  what  I  could  gather 
afterwards,  they  never  exchanged  a  word,  during 
this  intercourse,  of  amorous  significance.  Nor  did 
they  steer  the  course  so  dear  to  modern  intellectuals 
(and  so  dear  too  to  the  antiquated  wanderers  'through 
the  Land  of  Tenderness)  which  led  them  into  analyti- 
cal discussions  of  their  respective  sentimental  states 
of  being.  They  talked  just  concrete  war,  politics 
and  travel.  On  their  tramps  they  scarcely  talked 
at  all.  They  kept  in  step  which  maintained  the 
rhythm  of  their  responsive  souls.  She  would  lay 


44  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

an  arresting  touch  on  his  arm  at  the  instant  in  which 
he  pointed  his  stick  at  some  effect  of 'beauty;  and 
they  would  both  turn  and  smile  at  each  other,  inti- 
mately, conscious  of  harmony. 

We  left  the  next  morning,  Lackaday  to  take  over 
his  brigade  in  France,  I  to  hang  around  the  War 
Office  for  orders  to  proceed  on  my  further  unim- 
portant employment.  Lady  Auriol  and  Charles 
saw  us  off  at  the  station. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  your  new  brigade,  sir,"  said 
the  latter  when  the  train  was  just  coming  into  the 
station.  "They're  in  luck.  But  the  regiment's  in 
the  soup." 

He  wanted  to  discuss  the  matter,  but  with,  elderly 
tact  I  drew  the  young  man  aside,  so  that  the  roman- 
tic pair  should  have  a  decent  leave-taking.  But  all 
she  said  was: 

"You'll  write  and  tell  me  how  you  get  on?" 

And  he;  with  a  flash  in  his  blue  eyes  and  his 
two-year-old  grin: 

"May  I  really?" 

"You  may  —  if  a  General  in  the  field  has  time  to 
write  to  obscure  females." 

She  looked  adorable,  provoking,  with  the  rich 
colour  rising  beneath  her  olive  cheek  —  I  almost 
fell  in  love  with  her  myself  and  I  was  glad  that  the 
ironical  Charles  had  his  back  to  her.  An  expression 
of  shock  overspread  Lackaday's  ingenuous  features. 
He  shot  out  both  hands  in  protest,  and  mumbled 
something  incoherent.  She  took  the  hands  with  a 
happy  laugh,  as  the  train  lumbered  noisily  in. 

Lackaday  was  silent  and  preoccupied  during  the 
run  to  London. 

At  the  terminus  we  parted.  I  asked  him  to  dinner 
at  my  club.  He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  then  de- 
clined on  the  plea  of  military  business.  I  did  not 
see  him  or  the  Verity-Stewarts  or  Lady  Auriol  till 
after  the  Armistice. 


LIKE  Ancient  Gaul,  time  is  nowadays  divided 
into  three  parts,  before,  during  and  after  the 
war.  The  lives  of  most  men  are  split  into 
these  three  hard  and  fast  sections.  And  the  men 
who  have  sojourned  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death  have  emerged,  for  all  their  phlegm,  their 
philosophy,  their  passionate  carelessness  and  accord- 
ing to  their  several  temperaments,  not  the  same  as 
when  they  entered.  They  have  taken  human  life, 
they  have  performed  deeds  of  steadfast  and  reckless 
heroism  unimagined  even  in  the  war-like  daydreams 
of  their  early  childhood.  They  have  endured  want 
and  misery  and  pain  inconceivable.  They  have 
witnessed  scenes  of  horror  one  of  which,  in  their 
former  existence,  would  have  provided  months  of 
shuddering  nightmare.  They  have  made  instant 
decisions  affecting  the  life  or  death  of  their  fellows. 
They  have  conquered  fear.  They  have  seen  the 
scale  of  values  upon  which  their  civilized  life  was  so 
carefully  based  swept  away  and  replaced  by  another 
strange  and  grim  to  which  their  minds  must  rigidly 
conform.  They  return  to  the  world  of  rest  where 
humanity  is  still  struggling  to  maintain  the  old 
scale.  The  instinct  born  of  generations  of  tradition 
compels  a  facile  reacceptance.  They  think:  "The 
blood  and  mud  and  the  hell's  delight  of  the  war 
are  things  of  the  past.  We  take  up  life  where  we 
left  it  five  years  ago;  we  come  back  to  plough, 
lathe,  counter,  bank,  office,  and  we  shall  carry  on 
as  though  a  Sleeping  Beauty  spell  had  been  cast  on 
the  world  and  we  were  awakening,  at  the  kiss 
of  the  Fairy  Prince  of  peace,  to  our  suspended 
tasks." 

45 


46  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Are  they  right  or  are  they  wrong  in  their  surmise, 
these  millions  of  men,  who  have  passed  through  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow,  haunted  by  their  memories, 
tempered  by  their  plunge  into  the  elemental,  illu- 
mined by  the  self-knowledge  gained  in  the  fierce 
school  of  war? 

Does  the  Captain  V.C.  of  Infantry,  adored  and 
trusted  by  his  men,  from  whose  ranks  he  rose  by 
reason  of  latent  qualities  of  initiative  command  and 
inspiration,  contentedly  return  to  the  selling  of 
women's  stockings  in  his  old  drapery  establishment, 
to  the  vulgar  tyranny  of  the  oily  shopwalker,  to 
the  humiliating  restrictions  and  conditions  of  the 
salesman's  life?  Return  he  must  —  perhaps.  He 
has  but  two  trades,  both  of  which  he  knows  pro- 
foundly; the  selling  of  hosiery  and  the  waging  of 
war.  As  he  can  no  longer  wage  war,  he  sells  hosiery. 
But  does  he  do  it  contentedly?  If  his  soul,  through 
reaction,  is  contented  at  first,  will  it  continue  to  be 
so  through  the  long  uneventful  stocking-selling 
years?  Will  not  the  war  change  he  has  suffered 
cause  nostalgias,  revolts?  Will  it  bring  into  his  re- 
sumed activities  a  new  purpose  or  more  than  the 
old  lassitudes? 

These  questions  were  worrying  me,  as  they  were 
worrying  most  demobilized  men,  although  I,  an 
elderly  man  about  town,  had  no  personal  cause  for 
anxiety,  when,  one  morning,  my  man  brought  me. 
in  the  card  of  Brigadier-General  Lackaday.  It  was 
early  March.  I  may  mention  incidentally  that  I 
had  broken  down  during  the  last  wild  weeks  of  the 
war,  and  that  an  unthinkingly  beneficent  War  Office 
had  flung  me  into  Nice  where  they  had  forgotten 
me  until  a  few  days  before. 

During  my  stay  in  the  South  I  led  the  lotus  life 
of  studious  self-indulgence.  I  lived  entirely  for  my- 
self and  neglected  my  correspondence  to  such  a 
point  that  folks  ceased  to  write  to  me.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  I  was  a  very  sick  man,  under  the  iron  rule 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  47 

of  doctors  and  nurses  and  such  like  oppressors;  but, 
except  to  explain  why  I  had  lost  touch  with  every- 
body, that  is  a  matter  of  insignificant  importance. 
The  one  or  two  letters  I  did  receive  from  Lady 
Auriol  did  not  stimulate  my  interest  in  The  Ro- 
mance. I  gathered  that  she  was  in  continuous  rela- 
tions with  General  Lackaday,  who,  it  appeared,  was 
in  the  best  of  health.  But  when  a  man  of  fifty  has 
his  heart  and  lungs  and  liver  and  lights  all  dis- 
located he  may  be  pardoned  for  his  chilly  enthusi- 
asm over  the  vulgar  robustness  of  a  very  young 
Brigadier. 

On  this  March  morning,  however,  when  I  was 
beginning,  in  sober  joyousness,  to  pick  up  the 
threads  of  English  social  life,  the  announcement 
of  General  Lackaday  gave  me  a  real  thrill  of 
pleasure. 

He  came  in,  long,  lean,  khaki  clad,  red-tabbed, 
with,  I  swear,  more  rainbow  lines  on  his  breast,  and 
a  more  pathetically  childish  grin  on  his  face  than 
ever.  We  greeted  each  other  like  old  friends  long 
separated,  and  fell  immediately  into  intimate  talk, 
exchanging  our  personal  histories  of  seven  months. 
Mine  differed  only  in  brevity  from  an  old  wife's 
tale.  His  had  the  throb  of  adventure  and  the  sting 
of  failure.  In  October  his  brigade  had  found  im- 
mortal glory  in  heroic  death.  He  had  obeyed  high 
orders.  The  slaughter  was  no  fault  of  his.  But 
after  the  disaster  —  if  the  capture  of  an  important 
position  can  be  so  called  —  he  had  been  summarily 
appointed  to  a  Home  Command,  and  now  was  de- 
mobilized. 

"Demobilized?"  I  cried,  "what  on  earth  do 
you  mean?" 

"  It  appears  that  there  are  more  Brigadier-Generals 
in  the  dissolving  Army,"  said  he,  "than  there  are 
brigades.  I  can  retire  with  my  honorary  rank,  but 
if  I  care  to  stay  on,  I  must  do  so  with  the  rank  and 
pay  of  a  Major." 


48  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

I  flared  up  indignant.  I  presumed  that  he  had 
consigned  the  War  Office  to  flamboyant  perdition. 
In  his  mild  way  he  had.  The  War  Office  had 
looked  pained.  By  offering  a  permanent  Major's 
commission  in  the  Regular  Army,  with  chance  of 
promotion  and  pension,  it  thought  it  had  dealt  very 
handsomely  by  Lackaday.  It  hinted  that  though 
he  had  led  his  brigade  to  victory,  he  might  have 
employed  a  safer,  a  more  Sunday  school  method. 
Oh!  the  hint  was  of  the  slightest,  the  subtlest,  the 
most  delicate.  The  War  Office  very  pointedly  ad- 
dressed him  as  General,  and,  regarding  his  row  of 
ribbons,  implicitly  declared  him  an  ingrate.  But 
for  a  certain  stoniness  of  glance  developed  in  places 
where  Bureaucracy  would  have  been  very  frightened, 
the  War  Office  would  have  so  proclaimed  him  in 
explicit  speech. 

"I  would  have  stayed  on  as  a  Brigadier,"  said 
he.  "But  the  Major's  job's  impossible.  I  should 
have  thought  any  soldier  would  have  appreciated 
the  position  —  and  it  was  a  soldier,  a  colonel  whom 
I  saw  —  but  it  seems  that  if  you  stay  long  enough 
in  that  place  you're  at  the  mercy  of  the  little  girls 
who  run  you  round,  and  eventually  you  arrive  at 
their  level  of  intelligence.  However,"  he  grinned 
and  lit  a  cigarette,  "  it's  all  over.  I  can  call  myself 
General  Lackaday  till  the  day  of  my  death,  but  not 
a  sou  does  it  put  into  my  pocket.  And,  odd  as  it 
may  appear,  I've  got  to  earn  my  living.  Well,  I 
suppose  something  will  turn  up." 

Before  I  had  time  to  Question  him  as  to  his  plans 
and  prospects,  he  shifted  the  talk  to  our  friends, 
the  Verity-Stewarts.  He  had  stayed  with  them 
two  or  three  times.  Once  Lady  Auriol  had  again 
been  a  fellow  guest.  He  had  met  her  in  London, 
dined  at  her  tiny  house  in  Charles  Street,  Mayfair 
—  a  little  dinner  party,  doubtless  in  his  honour  - 
and  he  had  called  once  or  twice.  Evidently  the 
Romance  was  in  the  full  idyllic  stage.  I  asked 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  49 

somewhat  maliciously  what  Lady  Auriol  thought 
of  it.  He  rose  to  my  question  like  a  simple 
fish. 

"She's  far  more  indignant  than  I  am,  I've  had 
to  stop  her  writing  to  the  newspapers  and  sending 
the  old  Earl  down  to  the  House  of  Lords." 

"Lady  Auriol  ought  to  be  able  to  pull  some 
strings,"  said  I. 

"There  are  not  any  strings  going  to  be  pulled  for 
me  in  this  business,",  said  Lackaday.  He  rose, 
stalked  about  the  room  —  it  is  a  modest  bachelor 
St.  James's  Street  sitting-room,  and  he  took  up 
about  as  much  of  its  space  as  a  daddy-long-legs 
under  a  tumbler  —  and  suddenly  halted  in  front 
of  me.  "Do  you  know  why?" 

I  made  a  polite  gesture  of  enquiring  ignorance. 

"Because  it's  a  damn  sight  too  sacred." 

I  bowed.    I  understood. 

"I  can  find  it  in  my  heart  to  owe  many  things  to 
Lady  Auriol,"  he  continued.  "She's  a  great  woman. 
But  even  to  her  I  couldn't  owe  my  position  in  the 
British  Army." 

"Did  you  tell  her  so?" 

"I  did." 

I   pictured   the   scene,   knowing  my   Auriol. 
could  see  the  pride  in  her  dark  eyes  and  masterful 
lips.     His  renunciation  had  in  it  that  of  the  beau 
geste  which  she  secretly  adored.     It  put  the  final 
stamp  on  the  man. 

Upon  this  little  emotional  outburst  he  left,  promis- 
ing to  dine  with  me  the  next  day.  For  a 'month  I 
saw  him  frequently,  once  or  twice  with  Lady  Auriol. 
He  was  still  in  uniform,  waiting  for  the  final  clip 
of  the  War  Office  scissors  severing  the  red  tape  that 
still  bound  him  to  the  Army. 

Lady  Auriol  said  to  me:  "I  think  the  day  he  puts 
off  khaki  he'U  cry." 

He  stuck  to  it  till  the  very  last  day  possible. 
Then  he  appeared,  gaunt  and  miserable,  in  an  ill- 


50  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

fitting  blue  serge  suit  which,  in  the  wind,  flapped 
about  his  lean  body.  He  had  the  pathetic  air  of  a 
lost  child.  On  this  occasion  —  Lady  Auriol  and  he 
were  lunching  with  me  —  she  adopted  a  motherly 
attitude  which  afforded  me  both  pleasure  and 
amusement.  She  seemed  bent  on  assuring  him  that 
the  gaudy  vestments  of  a  successful  General  went 
for  nothing  in  her  esteem;  that,  like  Semele,  she 
felt  (had  that  unfortunate  lady  been  given  a  second 
chance)  more  at  ease  with  her  Jupiter  in  the  com- 
mon guise  of  ordinary  man. 

How  the  Romance  had  progressed  I  could  not 
tell.  Nothing  of  it  was  perceptible  from  their  talk, 
which  was  that  of  mutually  understanding  friends. 
I  hinted  a  question  after  the  meal,  when  she  and  I 
were  alone  for  a  few  moments.  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders,  and  regarded  me  enigmatically. 

"  I'm  a  little  more  mid- Victorian  than  I  thought 
I  was.'* 
"."Which  means?" 

"Whatever  you  like  it  to." 

And  that  is  all  I  had  a  chance  of  getting  out  of 
her.  Well,  the  relations  between  Lackaday  and 
Lady  Auriol  were  no  business  of  mine.  I  had 
plenty  to  do  and  to  think  about,  and  anxiety 
over  their  tender  affairs  did  not  rob  me  of  an 
hour's  slumber. 

Then  came  a  day  when  the  offer  of  a  humble  mis- 
sion in  connection  with  the  Peace  Conference  sent 
me  to  Paris.  Before  starting  I  had  a  last  interview 
with  Lackaday.  He  dined  with  me  alone  in  my 
chambers. 

He  looked  ill  and  worried.  His  scraggy  neck 
rising  far  above  an  evening  collar  too  low  for  him 
seemed  to  betray  by  its  stringy  workings  the  pertur- 
bation of  his  spirit.  His  carroty  thatch  no  longer 
crisp  from  the  careful  military  cut  had  grown  into 
a  kind  of  untamable  towslement.  The  last  month 
or  two  had  aged  him.  He  was  the  last  person  one 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  51 

would  have  imagined  to  be  a  distinguished  soldier 
in  the  Great  War. 

We  talked  pleasantly  of  indifferent  things  till 
the  cigars  were  lit  —  he  was  always  a  charming 
companion,  possessing  a  gentle  and  somewhat  plain- 
tive humour  —  and  then  he  began,  against  his 
habit,  to  speak  of  himself.  Like  thousands  of  de- 
mobilized officers  he  was  looking  around  for  some 
opening  in  civil  life.  As  to  what  particular  round 
hole  his  square  peg  could  fit  he  was  most  vague. 
Perhaps  a  position  in  one  of  the  far-away  regions 
that  were  to  be  administered  by  the  League  of 
Nations.  Something  in  Syria  or  German  East 
Africa. 

"Look  here,  my  dear  fellow,"  I  said  at  last,  "I 
presume  I'm  the  very  oldest  surviving  acquaint- 
ance you  have  in  the  world.  And  you  can't  accuse 
me  of  indiscreet  curiosity.  But  surely  you  must 
have  had  some  kind  of  profession  before  the  war." 

"Of  course  I  had." 

"Then  why  not  go  back  to  it?" 

It  was  the  first  tune  I  had  ventured  to  question 
him  on  his  antecedents.  For  all  his  gentleness,  he 
had  a  personal  dignity  which  was  enhanced  by  the 
symbolism  of  his  uniform  and  forbade  impertinent 
questioning.  As  he  had  kept  the  shutters  pulled 
down  over  his  pre-war  career,  having  in  all  our 
intercourse  given  me  no  hint  of  the  avocations  that 
had  led  him  to  know  the  Inns  of  France  with  the 
accuracy  of  a  Michelin  guide,  it  was  obvious  that 
he  had  done  so  for  his  own  good  and  deliberate 
reasons.  I  had  got  it  into  my  stupid  head  that  the 
qualities  which  had  raised  him  from  private  to 
Brigadier-General  had  served  him  in  a  commercial 
pursuit;  that  he  had  been,  at  the  time  of  his  pil- 
grimage through  the  country,  the  agent  of  some 
French  business  house. 

On  my  question  he  stared  at  his  cigar,  twisting 
it  backwards  and  forwards  between  his  delicate 


52  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

thumb  and  two  fingers,  with  the  air  of  a  man  hesi- 
tating on  a  decision,  until  the  inevitable  happened; 
the  long  ash  of  the  cigar  fell  over  his  trousers.  He 
rose  with  a  laugh  and  a  damn  and  brushed  himself. 
Then  he  said: 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Les  Petit  Patou?" 

"No,"  said  I,  mystified. 

"Scarcely  anyone  in  this  country  ever  has. 
That's  the  advantage  of  obscurity."  He  reflected 
for  a  moment  then  he  said:  "I  never  realized,  until 
I  went  very  shyly  among  them,  the  exquisite  deli- 
cacy of  English  gentlefolk.  Not  one  of  you,  not 
even  Lady  Auriol  who  has  given  me  the  privilege 
of  her  intimate  friendship,  has  ever  pressed  me  to 
give  an  account  of  myself.  I'm  not  ashamed  of  Les 

Petit  Patou.   But  it  seems  so  —  so ' '  he  snapped 

his  fingers  for  the  word  —  "so  incongruous.  My 
military  rank  demanded  that  I  should  preserve  it 
from  ridicule  —  you'll  remember  I  asked  you  to 
say  nothing  of  the  circus." 

"Still,"  said  I,  "the  name  Petit  Patou  conveys 
nothing  to  me." 

"I'm  the  original  Petit  Patou.  When  I  took  a 
partner  we  became  plural.  Begardez  un  instant." 

It  was  only  later  that  I  saw  the  significance  of 
the  instinctive  French  phrase. 

He  rose,  glanced  around  him,  pounced  on  a  little 
silver  match-box  and  an  empty  wire  waste-paper 
basket,  and  contorting  his  mobile  face  into  a  hide- 
ous" grimace  of  imbecility,  began  to  juggle  with 
these  two  objects  and  his  cigar,  displaying  the 
faultless  technique  of  the  professional.  After  a  few 
throws,  the  cigar  flew  into  his  mouth,  the  match- 
box fell  into  the  opened  pocket  of  his  dinner  jacket 
and  the  waste-paper  basket  descended  over  his  bead. 
For  a  second  he  stood  grinning  through  the  wire 
cage,  in  the  attitude  of  one  waiting  for  applause. 
Then  swiftly  he  disembarrassed  himself  of  the 
basket  and  threw  the  insulted  cigar  into  the  fire. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  53 

"  Do  you  think  that's  a  dignified  way  for  General 
Andrew  Lackaday,  C.B.,  to  make  his  living  —  in 
the  green  skin  tights  of  Petit  Patou?" 

We  talked  far  into  the  night.  My  sleep  was 
haunted  by  the  nightmare  of  the  six  foot  four  of 
the  stringy,  bony  emaciation  of  General  Lackaday 
in  green  skin  tights. 


CHAPTER  V 

TO  realize  Petit  Patou  in  the  British  General  of 
Brigade,  we  must  turn  to  the  manuscript 
mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this  story. 
We  meet  him,  a  raw  youth,  standing,  one  blazing 
summer  day  on  the  Bridge  of  Avignon.  He  insists 
on  this  episode,  because,  says  he,  the  bridge  is  asso- 
ciated with  important  events  in  his  life.  It  was  not, 
needless  to  remark,  the  Pont  d'Avignon  of  the  gay 
old  song,  for  the  further  arch  of  that  was  swept 
away  by  floods  long  ago,  and  it  now  remains  a  thing 
of  pathetic  uselessness.  Three-quarters  of  the  way 
across  the  Rhone  might  you  go,  and  then  you  would 
come  to  abrupt  nothingness,  just  the  swirling  river 
far  below  your  arrested  feet.  It  was  the  new  sus- 
pension bridge,  some  three  hundred  yards  further 
up,  sadly  inharmonious  with  the  macchiolated 
battlements  of  the  city  and  the  austere  mass,  rising 
above  them,  of  the  Palace  of  the  Popes  on  the  one 
side,  and,  on  the  other,  the  grey  antiquity  of  the 
castle  of  Villeneuve  brooding  like  an  ancient  mother 
over  its '  aged  offspring,  the  clustering  sun-baked 
town.  The  joyous  generation  of  the  Old  Bridge 
has  long  since  passed  away,  but  to  the  present 
generation  the  New  Bridge  affords  the  same  wonder 
and  delight.  For  it  entices  like  the  old,  from  stifling 
streets  to  the  haunts  of  Pan.  There  do  you  find 
leafy  walks,  and  dells  of  shade,  and  pathways  by 
the  great  cool  river  leading  to  sequestered  spots 
where  you  may  sit  and  forget  the  clatter  of  flag- 
stones and  the  stuffy  apartment  above  them  for 
which  the  rent  is  due;  where  the  air  of  early  June 
is  perfumed  by  wild  thyme  and  marjoram  and  the 
far-flung  sweetness  of  new  mown  hay,  and  where 

54 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  55 

the  nightingales  sing.  So,  whenever  it  can,  all 
Avignon  turns  out,  as  it  has  turned  out  for  hun- 
dreds of  years,  on  its  to  and  fro  adventure  across 
the  Bridge  of  Promise. 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  when  young  Lacka- 
day  stood  there,  leaning  moodily  over  the  parapet, 
regarding  it  not  as  a  bridge  of  Promise,  but  as  a 
Bridge  of  Despair.  He  had  fled  from  the  dressing- 
room  of  the  little  music-hall  just  outside  the  city 
walls,  which  he  shared  with  three  others  of  the 
troupe,  from  its  horrible  reek  of  escaping  gas  and 
drainage  and  grease-paint  and  the  hoarded  human 
emanations  of  years,  and  had  come  here  instinc- 
tively to  breathe  the  pure  air  that  swept  down  the 
broad  stream.  He  had  come  for  rest  of  mind  and 
comfort  of  soul;  but  only  found  himself  noisily 
alone  amid  an  unsympathetic  multitude. 

He  had  failed.  He  had  learned  it  first  from  the 
apathy  of  the  audience.  He  had  learned  it  after- 
wards from  the  demeanour  and  the  speech  far  from 
apathetic  of  the  manager  and  leader  of  the  troupe. 
They  were  a  company  of  six,  Les  Merveilleux,  five 
jugglers,  plate  spinners,  eccentric  musicians,  ven- 
triloquists, and  one  low  comedian.  Lackaday  was 
the  low  comedian,  his  business  to  repeat  in  burlesque 
most  of  the  performance  of  his  fellow  artists.  It 
was  his  first  engagement,  outside  the  Cirque  Rocam- 
beau,  his  first  day  with  the  troupe.  Everything 
had  gone  badly.  His  enormous  lean  length  put  the 
show  out  of  scale.  The  troupe,  accustomed  to  the 
business  of  a  smaller  man,  whose  sudden  illness 
caused  the  gap  which  Lackaday  came  from  Paris 
to  fill,  resented  the  change,  and  gave  him  little 
help.  They  demanded  impossibilities.  Although 
they  had  rehearsed  —  and  the  rehearsals  had  been 
a  sufficient  nightmare  of  suffering  —  everybody  had 
seemed  to  devote  a  ferocious  malice  to  his  humilia- 
tion. Where  the  professional  juggler  is  accustomed 
to  catch  things  at  his  hip,  they  threw  them  at  his 


56  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

knees;  they  appeared  to  decide  that  his  head  should 
be  on  the  level  of  his  breast.  The  leading  lady, 
Madame  Coinc.on,  wife  of  the  manager,  a  compact 
person  of  five  foot  two,  roundly  declared  that  she 
could  not;\play  with  him,  and  in  his  funniest  act, 
dependent  on  her  co-operation,  she  left  him  to  be 
helplessly  funny  by  himself.  The  tradition  of  the 
troupe  required  the  comedian  to  be  attired  in  a 
loud  check  suit,  green  necktie  and  white  felt  bowler 
hat.  On  the  podgy  form  of  Lackaday's  predecessor 
it  produced  its  comic  effect.  On  the  lank  Lackaday 
it  was  characterless.  In  consequence  of  all  this,  he 
had  been  nervous,  he  had  missed  cues,  he  had  fum- 
bled when  he  ought  to  have  been  clear,  and  been 
clear  when  he  ought  comically  to  have  fumbled. 
He  had  gone  about  his  funny  business  with  the 
air  of  a  curate  marrying  his  vicar  to  the  object  of 
his  hopeless  affections. 

And  Coingon  had  devastatingly  insulted  him. 
What  worm  was  in  the  head  of  Moignon  (the  Paris 
music-hall  agent)  that  he  should  send  him  such  a 
monstrosity?  He  wasn't,  nom  de  Dieu,  carrying 
about  freaks  at  a  fair.  He  wanted  a  comedian  and 
not  a  giant.  No  wonder  the  Cirque  Rocambeau 
/  had  come  to  grief,  if  it  depended  on  such  canaries 
as  Lackaday.  Didn't  he  know  he  was  there  to 
make  the  audience  laugh?  —  not  to  give  a  repre- 
sentation of  Monsieur  Mounet-Sully  elongated  by 
the  rack. 

"  Hop,  mon  petit,"  said  he  at  last.  "F—  -  moi  le 
camp,'  which  is  a  very  vulgar  way  of  insisting  on  a 
person's  immediate  retirement.  "Here  is  your 
week's  salary.  I  gain  by  the  proceeding.  The 
baggage-man  will  see  us  through.  He  has  done  so 
before.  As  for  Moignon 

Although  Lackaday  regarded  Moignon  as  a  sort 
of  god  dispensing  fame  and  riches,  enthroned  on 
unassailable  heights  of  power,  he  trembled  at  the 
awful  destiny  that  awaited  him.  He  would  be  cast, 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  57 

like  Lucifer  from  heaven.  He  would  be  stripped  of 
authority.  Coingon's  invective  against  him  was  so 
terrible  that  Lackaday  pitied  him  even  more  than 
he  pitied  himself.  Yet  there  was  himself  to  con- 
sider. As  much  use  to  apply  to  the  fallen  Moignon 
for  an  engagement  as  to  the  Convent  of  the  Daugh- 
ters of  Calvary.  He  and  Moignon  and  their  joint 
fortunes  were  sent  hurtling  down  into  the  abyss. 

On  the  parapet  of  the  Bridge  of  Despair  leant 
young  Lackaday,  gazing  unseeingly  down  into  the 
Rhone.  His  sudden  misfortune  had  been  like  the 
stunning  blow  of  a  sandbag.  His  brain  still  reeled. 
What  had  happened  was  incomprehensible.  He 
knew  his  business.  He  could  conceive  no  other. 
He  had  been  trained  to  it  since  infancy.  There 
was  not  a  phase  of  clown's  work  with  which  he  was 
not  familiar.  He  was  a  passable  gymnast,  an  expert 
juggler,  a  trick  musician,  an  accomplished  conjurer. 
All  that  the  Merveilleux  troupe  act  required  from 
him  he  had  been  doing  successfully  for  years.  Why 
then  the  failure?  He  blamed  the  check  suit,  the 
ill-will  of  the  company,  the  unreason  of  Madame 
Coinc.on.  .  .  . 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  had  emerged 
from  an  old  world  into  a  new.  That  between  the 
old  circus  public  and  the  new  music-hall  public 
there  was  almost  a  generation's  change  of  taste  and 
critical  demand.  The  Cirque  Rocambeau  had  gone 
round  withqut  perceiving  that  the  world  had -gone 
round  too.  It  wondered  why  its  triumphant  glory 
had  declined;  and  it  could  not  take  steps  to 
adapt  itself  to  the  new  conditions  which  it  could 
not  appreciate.  Everyone  grew  old  and  tradition- 
bound  in  the  Cirque  Rocambeau,  even  the  horses, 
until  gradually  it  perished  of  senile  decay.  Andrew 
Lackaday  carrying  on  the  traditions  of  his  foster 
father,  the  clown  Ben  Flint,  had  remained  with  it, 
principal  clown,  to  the  very  end.  Now  and  then, 
rare  passers  through  from  the  outer  world,  gym- 


58  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

nasts  down  on  their  luck,  glad  to  take  a  makeshift 
engagement  while  waiting  for  better  things,  had 
counselled  him  to  leave  the  antiquated  concern. 
But  the  Cirque  Rocambeau  had  been  the  whole 
of  his  life,  childhood,  boyhood,  young  manhood; 
he  was  linked  to  it  by  the  fibres  of  a  generous  nature. 
All  those  elderly  anxious  folk  were  his  family. 
Many  of  the  children,  his  contemporaries,  trained 
in  the  circus,  had  flown  heartlessly  from  the  nest, 
and  the  elders  had  fatalistically  lamented.  Madame 
Rocambeau,  bowed,  wizened,  of  uncanny  age,  yet 
forceful  and  valiant  to  the  last  —  carrying  on  for 
the  old  husband  now  lying  paralysed  in  Paris  who 
had  inherited  the  circus  from  his  father  misty 
years  ago,  would  say  to  the  young  man,  when  one 
of  these  defections  occurred:  "And  you  Andre,  you 
are  not  going  to  leave  us?  You  have  a  fine  position, 
and  if  you  are  dissatisfied,  perhaps  we  can  come  to 
an  arrangement.  You  are  a  child  of  the  circus  and 
I  love  you  like  my  own  flesh  and  blood.  We  shall 
turn  the  corner  yet.  All  that  is  necessary  is  faith 
—  and  a  little  youth."  And  Andrew,  a  simple  soul, 
who  had  been  trained  in  the  virtues  of  honour  and 
loyalty  by  the  brave  Ben  Flint,  would  repudiate 
with  indignation  the  suggestion  of  any  selfish  desire 
to  go  abroad  and  seek  adventure. 

At  last,  one  afternoon,  when  the  tent,  a  miser- 
able gipsy  thing  compared  with  the  proud  pavilion 
of  the  days  of  the  glory  of  Billy  the  pig,  was  pitched 
on  the  outskirts  of  a  poor  little  town,  they  found 
Madame  Rocambeau  dead  in  the  canvas  box-office 
which  she  had  occupied  for  fifty  years,  the  heart- 
breaking receipts  in  front  of  her,  counted  out  into 
little  piles  of  bronze  and  small  silver.  The  end  had 
come.  The  circus  could  not  be  sold  as  a  going 
concern.  It  crumbled  away.  Somebody  bought 
the  old  horses,  Heaven  knows  for  what  purpose. 
Somebody  bought  the  antiquated  harness  and  moth- 
eaten  trappings.  Somebody  else  bought  the  tents 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  59 

and  fittings.  But  nobody  bought  the  old  careworn 
human  beings,  riders  and  gymnasts  and  stable 
hands  who  crept  away  into  the  bright  free  air  of 
France,  dazed  and  lost,  like  the  prisoners  released 
from  the  Bastille. 

It  was  not  so  long  ago;  long  enough  ago,  how- 
ever, for  young  Andrew  Lackaday  to  have  come 
perilously  near  the  end  of  his  savings  in  Paris,  before 
the  Almighty  Moignon  (now  curse-withered),  but 
then  vast  and  unctuous,  reeking  of  fat  food  and 
diamonds  and  great  cigars,  had  found  him  this 
engagement  at  Avignon.  He  had  journeyed  thither 
full  of  the  radiant  confidence  of  twenty.  He  stood 
on  the  bridge  overwhelmed  by  the  despair  whose 
Tartarean  blackness  only  twenty  can  experience. 

Not  a  gleam  anywhere  of  hope.  His  humiliation 
was  absolute.  The  maniacal  Coingon  had  not  even 
given  him  an  opportunity  of  redeeming  his  failure. 
He  had  been  paid  to  go  away.  The  disgusting  yet 
necessary  price  of  his  shame  rattled  in  his  pockets. 
To-night  the  baggage  man  would  play  his  part  — 
a  being  once  presumably  trained,  yet  sunk  so  low 
in  incompetence  that  he  was  glad  to  earn  his  liveli- 
hood as  baggage  man.  And  he,  Andrew  Lackaday, 
was  judged  more  incompetent  even  than  this  de- 
graded outcast.  Why?  How  could  it  be?  What 
was  the  reason?  He  dug  his  nails  into  his  burning 
temples. 

The  summer  sun  beat  down  on  him,  and  set 
a-glitter  the  currents  in  the  Rhone.  The  ceaseless, 
laughing  stream  of  citizens  passed  him  by.  Pres- 
ently youth's  need  of  action  brought  him  half- 
unconsciously  to  an  erect  position.  He  glanced 
dully  this  way  and  that,  and  then  slowly  moved 
along  the  bridge  towards  the  Villeneuve  bank. 
Girls  bare-headed,  arm-in-arm,  looked  up  at  him 
and  laughed,  he  was  so  long  and  lean  and  comical 
with  his  ugly  lugubrious  face  and  the  little  straw 
hat  perched  on  top  of  his  bushy  carroty  poll.  He 


60  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

did  not  mind,  being  used  to  derision.  In  happier 
days  he  valued  it,  for  the  laugh  would  be  accom- 
panied by  a  nudge  and  a  "  Voila  Augusts!"  He 
took  it  as  a  tribute.  It  was  fame.  Now  he  was 
so  deeply  sunk  in  his  black  mood  that  he  scarcely 
heeded.  He  walked  on  to  the  end  of  the  bridge, 
and  turned  down  the  dusty  pathway  by  the  bank. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  sounds  of  music 
and  revelry,  and  a  few  yards  further  on  he  came  to 
a  broad  dell  shaded  by  plane  trees  and  set  out  as  a 
restaurant  garden,  with  rude  tables  and  benches, 
filled  with  good-humoured  thirsty  folk;  on  one  side 
a  weather-beaten  wooden  chalet,  having  the  proud 
title  of  Restaurant  du  Rhone,  served  apparently 
but  to  house  the  supply  of  drinks  which  nondescript 
men  and  sturdy  bare-headed  maidens  carried  in- 
cessantly on  trays  to  the  waiting  tables.  On  the 
dusty  midway  space  —  the  garden  boasted  no  blade 
of  grass  —  couples  danced  to  the  strains  of  a  wheez- 
ing hurdy-gurdy  played  by  a  white  bearded  ancient 
who  at  the  end  of  each  tune  refreshed  himself  with 
a  draught  from  a  chope  of  beer  on  the  ground  by 
his  side,  while  a  tiny  anaemic  girl  went  round  gather- 
ing sous  in  a  shell.  When  the  music  stopped  you 
could  hear  the  whir  and  the  click  of  the  bowls  in  an 
adjoining  dusty  and  rugged  alley  and  the  harsh 
excited  cries  of  the  players.  During  these  inter- 
vals the  serving  people  in  an  absent  way  would 
scatter  an  occasional  carafe-full  of  water  on  the 
dancing  floor  to  lay  the  dust. 

Young  Lackaday  hung  hesitatingly  on  the  out- 
skirts under  the  wooden  archway  that  was  at  once 
the  entrance  and  the  sign-board.  The  music  had 
ended.  The  tables  were  packed.  He  felt  very  thirsty 
and  longed  to  enter  and  drink  some  of  the  beer  which 
looked  so  cool  in  the  long  glasses  surmounted  by 
its  half  inch  of  white  froth  —  inviting  as  sea-foam. 
Shyness  held  him.  These  prosperous,  care-free 
bourgeois,  almost  indistinguishable  one  from  the 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  61 

other  by  racial  characteristics,  and  himself  a  tragic 
failure  in  life  and  physically  unique  among  men, 
were  worlds  apart.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him 
before  that  he  could  find  himself  anywhere  in 
France  where  the  people  were  not  his  people.  He 
felt  heart-brokenly  alien. 

Presently  the  hurdy-gurdy  started  the  ghostly 
tinkling  of  the  //  Bacio  waltz,  and  the  ingenuous 
couples  of  Avignon  rose  and  began  to  dance.  The 
thirst-driven'  Lackaday  plucked  up  courage,  and 
strode  to  a  deserted  wooden  table.  He  ordered 
beer.  It  was  brought.  He  sipped  luxuriously. 
One  tells  one's  thirst  to  be  patient,  when  one  has 
to  think  of  one's  sous.  He  was  half-way  through 
when  two  girls,  young  and  flushed  from  dancing 
together,  flung  themselves  down  on  the  opposite 
bench  —  the  table  between. 

"We  don't  disturb  you,  Monsieur?" 

He  raised  his  hat  politely.  "By  no  means,  Mesde- 
moiselles." 

One  of  them  with  a  quick  gesture  took  up  from 
the  table  a  forgotten  newspaper  and  began  to  fan 
herself  and  her  companion,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  giggling  and  chatter  about  the  heat.  They  were 
very  young.  They  ordered  grenadine  syrup  and 
eau-de-seltz.  Andrew  Lackaday  stared  dismally 
beyond  them,  at  the  dancers.  In  the  happy,  per- 
spiring girls  in  front  of  him  he  took  no  interest, 
for  all  their  youth  and  comeliness  and  obviously 
frank  approachability.  He  saw  nothing  but  the 
fury-enflamed  face  of  Coingon  and  heard  nothing 
but  the  rasping  voice  telling  him  that  it  was  cheaper 
to  pay  him  his  week's  salary  than  to  allow  him  to 
appear  again.  And  "/—  -  moi  le  camp!"  Why 
hadn't  he  taken  Coingon  by  the  neck  then  and 
there  with  his  long  strong  fingers  and  strangled 
him?  Coingon  would  have  had  the  chance  of  a 
rabbit.  He  had  the  strength  of  a  dozen  Coingons 
—  he,  trained  to  perfection,  with  muscle  like  dried 


62  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

bull's  sinews.  He  could  split  an  apple  between 
arm  and  forearm,  in  the  hollow  of  his  elbow.  Why 
shouldn't  he  go  back  and  break  Coinoon's  neck? 

No  man  alive  had  the  right  to  tell  him  to  / le 

camp ! 

"You  don't  seem  very  gay,"  said  a  laughing  voice. 

With  a  start  he  recovered  consciousness  of  imme- 
diate surroundings.  Instead  of  two  girls  opposite, 
there  was  only  one.  Vaguely  he  remembered  that 
a  man  had  come  up. 

"t/n  tour  de  wise,  Mademoiselle?" 

"Je  vieux  bien." 

And  one  of  the  girls  had  gone,  leaving  her  just 
sipped  grenadine  syrup  and  seltzer-water.  But  it 
had  been  like  some  flitting  unreality  of  a  dream. 

At  his  blinking  recovery  the  remaining  girl 
laughed  again. 

"You  look  like  a  somnambulist." 

He  replied:  "I  beg  pardon,  Mademoiselle,  but  I 
was  absorbed  in  my  reflections." 

"  Black  ones  —  hein?  They  have  made  you  little 
infidelities?" 

He  frowned.  "They?  Who  do  you  mean  — 
they?" 

"  Un  joli  gargon  is  not  absorbed  in  his  reflections" 
—  she  mimicked  his  tone  —  "unless  there  is  the 
finger  of  a  petite  femme  to  stir  them  round  and 
darken  them." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  seriously.  "You  are 
quite  mistaken.  There's  not  a  woman  in  the  world 
against  whom  I  have  the  slightest  grudge." 

He  spoke  truly.  It  was  a  matter  of  love,  and 
Mme  CoinQon's  hostility  did  not  count. 

"Word  of  honour,"  he  added  looking  into  the 
smiling  ironical  face. 

Love  had  entered  very  little  into  his  serious 
scheme  of  life.  He  had  had  his  entanglements  of 
course.  There  was  Francine  Dumesnil,  who  had 
fluttered  into  the  Cirque  Rocambeau  as  a  slack 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  63 

wire  artist,  and  after  making  him  vows  of  undying 
affection,  had  eloped  a  week  afterwards  with  Hans 
Petersen,  the  only  man  left  who  could  stand  on 
the  bare  back  of  a  horse  that  was  not  thick  with 
resin.  But  the  heart  of  Andrew  Lackaday  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  heart  of  Francine  Dumesnil. 
He  had  agreed  with  the  aged  Madame  Rocambeau. 
Sales  types,  both  of  them. 

"  If  it  had  been  chagrin  d"  amour  —  sorrow  of  love, 
Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "I  should  not  have  been 
so  insensible  to  the  presence  of  two  such  charming 
young  ladies." 

"We  are  polite,  all  the  same,"  she  remarked 
approvingly. 

She  sipped  her  grenadine.  Having  nothing  further 
to  say  he  sipped  his  beer.  Presently  she  said: 

"I  saw  you  this  afternoon  at  the  boite."  He 
looked  at  her  with  a  touch  of  interest.  No  one 
would  allude  to  the  music-hall  as  the  "box"  except 
a  fellow  professional  engaged  there. 

"You  too?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  She  belonged  to  a  troupe  of  danc- 
ing girls.  As  they  were  the  first  number,  they  got 
away  early.  She  and  her  friend  had  gone  for  a  walk 
and  found  this  restaurant.  It  was  gay,  wasn't  it? 
He  said,  soberly: 

"You  were  dancing  at  rehearsal  this  morning. 
You've  danced  at  the  music-hall  this  afternoon, 
you'll  be  dancing  again  this  evening  —  why  do  you 
dance  here?" 

"One  can  only  be  young  once,"  she  replied. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Seventeen.    And  you?" 

"Twenty-two." 

She  would  have  given  him  thirty,  she  said,  he 
looked  so  serious.  And  he,  regarding  her  more 
narrowly,  would  have  given  her  fifteen.  She  was 
very  young,  slight,  scarcely  formed,  yet  her  move- 
ments were  lithe  and  complete  like  those  of  a  young 


64  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

lizard.  She  had  laughing,  black  eyes  and  a  fresh 
mouth  set  in  a  thin  dark  face  that  might  one  day 
grow  haggard  or  coarse,  according  to  her  physical 
development,  but  was  now  full  with  the  devil's 
beauty  of  youth.  A  common  type,  one  that  would 
not  arrest  masculine  eyes  as  she  passed  by.  Dozens 
of  the  girls  there  round  about  might  have  called  her 
sister.  She  was  dressed  with  cheap  neatness,  the 
soiled  white  wing  of  a  bird  in  her  black  hat  being 
the  only  touch  of  bravura.  She  spoke  with  the  rich 
accent  of  the  South. 

"You  are  of  the  Midi?"  he  said. 

Yes.  She  came  from  Marseilles.  Ingenuously 
chattering  she  gave  him  her  family  history.  In  the 
meanwhile  her  companions  and  her  partner  having 
finished  their  dance  had  retired  to  a  sequestered 
corner  of  the  restaurant,  leaving  the  pair  here  to 
themselves.  Lackaday  learned  that  her  name  was 
Elodie  Figasso.  Her  father  was  dead.  Her  mother 
was  a  dressmaker,  in  which  business  she,  too,  had 
made  her  apprenticeship.  But  an  elderly  man,  a 
huissier,  one  of  those  people  who  go  about  with  a 
tricolour-rosetted  cocked  hat,  and  steel  buttons 
and  canvas  trousers  and  a  leather  satchel  chained 
to  their  waist,  had  lately  diverted  from  Elodie  the 
full  tide  of  maternal  affection.  As  she  hated  the 
huissier,  a  vulgar  man  who  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  good  things  that  the  Veuve  Figasso  could  put 
into  his  stomach,  and  as  her  besotted  mother  starved 
them  both  in  order  to  fulfil  the  huissier' s  demands, 
and  as  she  derived  no  compensating  joy  from  her 
dressmaking,  she  had  found,  thanks  to  a  friend,  a 
position  as  figurante  in  a  Marseilles  Revue,  and, 
voila  —  there  she  was  free,  independent,  and,  since 
she  had  talent  and  application,  was  now  earning 
her  six  francs  a  day. 

She  finished  her  grenadine.  Then  with  a  swift 
movement  she  caught  a  passing  serving  maid  and 
slipped  into  her  hand  the  money  for  her  companion's 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  65 

scarcely  tasted  drink  and  her  own.  Instantly 
Andrew  protested  —  Mademoiselle  must  allow  him 
to  have  the  pleasure. 

But  no  —  never  in  life,  she  had  not  intruded  on 
his  table  to  have  free  drinks.  As  for  the  consomma- 
tion  of  the  feather-headed  Margot  —  from  Margot 
herself  would  she  get  reimbursement. 

"But  yet,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "you  make  me 
ashamed.  You  must  still  be  thirsty  —  like  myself." 

"Qa  ne  vous  genera  pas?" 

She  asked  the  question  with  such  a  little  air  of 
serious  solicitude  that  he  laughed,  for  the  first  time. 
Would  it  upset  his  budget,  involve  the  sacrifice  of 
a  tram  ride  or  a  packet  of  tobacco,  if  he  spent  a  few 
sous  on  more  syrup  for  her  delectation?  And  yet 
the  delicacy  of  her  motive  appealed  to  him.  Here 
was  a  little  creature  very  honest,  very  much  of  the 
people,  very  proud,  very  conscientious. 

"On  the  contrary,  Mademoiselle,"  said  he,  "I 
shall  feel  that  you  do  me  an  honour." 

"It  is  not  to  be  refused,"  said  she  politely,  and 
the  serving  maid  was  despatched  for  more  beer 
and  syrup. 

"I  waited  to  see  your  turn,"  she  said,  after  a 
while. 

"Ah!"  he  sighed. 

She  glanced  at  him  swiftly.  "It  does  not  please 
you  that  I  should  talk  about  it?" 

"Not  very  much,"  said  he. 

"But  I  found  you  admirable,"  she  declared. 
"  Much  better  than  that  espece  de  poule  mouillee  — 
I  already  forget  his  name  —  who  played  last  week. 
Oh  —  a  wet  hen  —  he  was  more  like  a  drowned 
duck.  So  when  I  heard  a  comedian  from  Paris  was 
coming,  I  said:  'I  must  wait'  and  Margot  and  I 
waited  in  the  wings  —  and  we  laughed.  Oh  yes, 
we  laughed." 

"It's  more  than  the  audience  did,"  said  the  miser- 
able Andrew. 


66  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

The  audience!  Of  Avignon!  She  had  never 
played  to  such  an  audience  in  her  life.  They  were 
notorious,  these  people,  all  over  France.  They  were 
so  stupid  that  before  they  would  laugh  you  had  to 
tell  them  a  thing  was  funny,  and  then  they  were  so 
suspicious  that  they  wouldn't  laugh  for  fear  of  being 
deceived. 

All  of  which,  of  course,  is  a  libel  on  the  hearty 
folk  of  Avignon.  But  Elodie  was  from  Marseilles, 
which  naturally  has  a  poor  opinion  of  the  other 
towns  of  Provence.  She  also  lied  for  the  comfort- 
ing of  Lackaday. 

"They  are  so  unsympathetic,"  said  he,  "that  I 
shall  not  play  any  more." 

She  knitted  her  young  brow.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I  play  neither  to-night  nor  to- 
morrow night,  nor  ever  again.  To-morrow  I  return 
to  Paris." 

She  regarded  him  awe-stricken.  "You  throw  up 
an  engagement  —  just  like  that  —  because  the  audi- 
ence doesn't  laugh?" 

She  had  heard  vague  fairy-tales  of  pampered 
opera-singers  acting  with  such  Olympian  independ- 
ence; but  never  a  music-hall  artist  on  tour.  He 
must  be  very  rich  and  powerful. 

Lackaday  read  the  thought  behind  the  wide- 
open  eyes. 

"Not  quite  like  that,"  he  admitted  honestly. 
"It  did  not  altogether  depend  on  myself.  You  see 
the  patron  found  that  the  audience  didn't  laugh 
and  the  patronne  found  that  my  long  body  spoiled 
her  act  —  and  so  —  I  go  to  Paris  to-morrow." 

She  rose  from  the  depths  of  envying  wonder  to 
the  heights  of  pity.  She  flashed  inctignation  at  the 
abominable  treatment  he  had  received  from  the 
CoinQons.  She  scorched  them  with  her  contempt. 
What  right  had  that  tortoise  of  a  Madame  Coincon 
to  put  on  airs?  She  had  seen  better  juggling  in  a 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  67 

booth  at  a  fair.  Her  championship  wanned  Andrew's 
heart,  and  he  began  to  feel  less  lonely  in  a  dismal 
and  unappreciative  world.  Longing  for  further 
healing  of  an  artist's  wounded  vanity  he  said: 

"Tell  me  frankly.  You  did  see  something  to 
admire  in  my  performance?" 

"Haven't  I  always  said  so?  Tiens,  would  you 
like  me  to  tell  you  something?  All  my  life  I  have 
loved  Auguste  in  a  circus.  You  know  Auguste  — 
the  clown?  Well,  you  reminded  me  of  Auguste  and 
I  laughed." 

"Until  lately  I  was  Auguste  —  in  the  Cirque 
Rocambeau." 

She  clapped  her  hands. 

"But  I  have  seen  you  there  —  when  I  was  quite 
little  —  three  —  four  years  ago  at  Marseilles." 

"Four  years,"  said  Andrew  looking  into  the  dark 
backward  and  abysm  of  time. 

"Yes,  I  remember  you  well,  now.  We're  old 
friends." 

"I  hope  you'll  allow  me  to  continue  the  friend- 
ship," said  Andrew. 

They  talked  after  the  way  of  youth.  He  narrated 
his  uneventful  history.  She  added  details  to  the 
previous  sketch  of  her  own  career.  The  afternoon 
drew  to  a  close.  The  restaurant  garden  emptied; 
the  good  folks  of  Avignon  returned  dinnerwards 
across  the  bridge.  They  looked  for  Margot,  but 
Margot  had  disappeared,  presumably  with  her  new 
acquaintance.  Elodie  sniffed  in  a  superior  manner. 
If  Margot  didn't  take  care,  she  would  be  badly 
caught  one  of  these  days.  For  herself,  no,  she  had 
too  much  character.  She  wouldn't  walk  about  the 
streets  with  a  young  man  she  had  only  known  for 
five  minutes.  She  told  Andrew  so,  very  seriously, 
as  they  strolled  over  the  bridge  arm-in-arm. 

They  parted,  arranging  to  meet  at  10  o'clock 
when  she  was  free  from  the  music-hall,  at  the  Caf6 
des  Negociants  or  the  Place  de  1' Hotel  de  Ville. 


68  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Andrew,  shrinking  from  the  table  d'hote  in  the 
mangy  hotel  in  a  narrow  back  street  where  the 
Merveilleux  troupe  had  their  crowded  being,  dined 
at  a  cheap  restaurant  near  the  railway  station,  and 
filled  in  the  evening  with  aimless  wandering  up  and 
and  down  the  thronged  Avenue  de  la  Gare.  Once 
he  turned  off  into  the  quiet  moonlit  square  domi- 
nated by  the  cathedral  and  the  walls  and  towers  of 
the  Palace  of  the  Popes.  The  austere  beauty  of  it 
said  nothing  to  him.  It  did  not  bring  calm  to  a 
fevered  spirit.  On  the  contrary,  it  depressed  a 
spirit  longing  for  a  little  fever,  so  he  went  back  to 
the  broad,  gay  Avenue  where  all  Avignon  was  tak- 
ing the  air.  A  girl's  sympathy  had  reconciled  him 
with  his  kind. 

She  came  tripping  up  to  him,  almost  on  the  stroke 
of  ten,  as  he  sat  at  the  outside  edge  of  the  cafe  ter- 
race, awaiting  her.  The  reconciliation  was  complete. 
Like  most  of  the  young  men  there,  he  too  had  his 
maid.  They  met  as  if  they  had  known  each  other 
for  years.  She  was  full  of  an  evil  fellow,  un 
gros  type,  with  a  roll  of  fat  at  the  back  of  his  neck 
and  a  great  diamond  ring  which  flashed  in  the 
moonlight,  who  had  waited  for  her  at  the  stage 
door  and  walked  by  her  side,  pestering  her  with  his 
attentions. 

"And  do  you  know  how  I  got  rid  of  him?  I  said: 
'  Monsieur,  I  can't  walk  with  you  through  the  streets 
on  account  of  my  comrades.  But  I  swear  to  you 
that  you  will  £nd  me  at  the  Cafe  des  Negotiants  at 
a  quarter  past  ten.'  And  so  I  made  my  escape. 
Look,"  said  she  excitedly,  gripping  Andrew's  arm, 
"here  he  is." 

She  met  the  eyes  of  the  gros  type  with  the  roll  of 
fat  and  the  diamond  ring,  who  halted  somewhat  un- 
certainly in  front  of  the  cafe.  Whereupon  Andrew 
rose  to  his  long  height  of  six  foot  four  and,  glaring  at 
the  offender,  put  him  to  the  flight  of  over-elaborated 
UBcencern.  Elodie  was  delighted. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  69 

"You  could  have  eaten  him  up  alive,  n'est-ce  pas, 
Andre?" 

And  Andrew  felt  the  thrill  of  the  successful  Squire 
of  Dames.  For  the  rest  of  the  evening,  there  was 
no  longer  any  'Monsieur'  or  'Mademoiselle.'  It  was 
Andre  and  Elodie. 

Yes,  he  would  write  to  her  from  Paris,  telling  her 
of  his  fortunes.  And  she  too  would  write.  The 
Agence  Moignon  would  always  find  him.  It  is 
parenthetically  to  be  noted  how  his  afternoon  fears 
of  the  impermanence  of  the  Agence  Moignon  had 
vanished.  Time  flew  pleasantly.  She  seemed  to 
have  set  herself,  her  youth  and  her  femininity,  to 
the  task  of  evoking  the  wide  baby  smile  on  his  good- 
natured  though  dismal  face.  It  was  only  on  their 
homeward  way,  after  midnight,  that  she  mentioned 
the  'boite.'  There  had  been  discussions.  Some  had 
said  this  and  some  had  said  that.  There  had  been 
partisans  of  the  Coincons  and  partisans  of  Andre. 
There  was  subject  matter  for  one  of  the  pretty  quar- 
rels dear  to  music-hall  folk.  But  Elodie  summed  up 
the  whole  matter,  with  her  air  of  precocious  wisdom 
—  a  wisdom  gained  in  the  streets  and  sewing-rooms 
and  cafes-concerts  of  Marseilles. 

"'What  you  do  is  excellent,  mon  cher;  but  it  is 
vieux  jeu.  The  circus  is  not  the  music-hall.  You 
must  be  original." 

As  originality  was  banned  from  the  circus  tradi- 
tion, he  stood  still  in  the  narrow,  quiet  street  and 
gasped. 

"Original?" 

"You  are  so  long  and  thin,"  she  said. 
.   "That  has  always  been  against  me;  it  was  against 
me  to-day." 

"But  you  could  make  it  so  droll,"  she  declared. 
"And  there  would  be  no  one  else  like  you.  But  you 
must  be  by  yourself,  not  with  a  troupe  like  the  Mer- 
veilleux.  Tiens,"  she  caught  him  by  the  lapels  of 
his  jacket  and  a  passer-by  might  have  surmised  a 


70  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

pleading  stage  in  a  lovers'  discussion,  "I  have  heard 
there  is  a  little  little  man  in  London  —  oh,  so  little, 
et  pas  du  tout  joli." 

"I  know,"  said  Andrew,  "but  he  is  a  great  artist." 

"And  so  are  you,"  she  retorted.  "But  as  this 
little  man  gets  all  the  profit  he  can  out  of  his  little- 
ness —  it  was  la  grosse  Leonie  —  the  brune,  number 
three,  you  know  —  ah,  but  you  haven't  seen  us  — 
anyhow  she  has  been  in  London  and  was  telling  me 
about  him  this  evening  —  all  that  nature  has  en- 
dowed him  with  he  exaggerates  —  eh  bien!  Why 
couldn't  you  do  the  same?" 

The  street  was  badly  lit  with  gas;  but  still  he 
could  see  the  flash  in  her  dark  eyes.  He  drew  him- 
self up  and  laid  both  his  hands  on  her  thin  shoulders. 

"My  little  Elodie,"  said  he  —  and  by  the  dim 
gaslight  she  could  see  the  flash  of  his  teeth  revealed 
by  his  wide  smile  —  "My  little  Elodie,  you  have 
genius.  You  have  given  me  an  idea  that  may  make 
my  fortune.  What  can  I  give  you  in  return?" 

"If  you  want  to  show  me  that  you  are  not  un- 
grateful, you  might  kiss  me,"  said  Elodie. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  KISS  must  mean  either  very  much  or  very 
little.  There  are  maidens  to  whom  it  signifies 
a  life's  consecration.  There  are  men  whose 
blood  it  fires  with  burning  passion.  There  are 
couples  of  different  sex  who  jointly  consider  their 
first  kiss  a  matter  of  supreme  importance,  and,  the 
temporary  rapture  over,  at  once  begin  to  discuss  the 
possibilities  of  parental  approbation  and  the  ways 
and  means  of  matrimony.  A  kiss  may  be  the  very 
devil  of  a  thing  leading  to  two  or  three  dozen  honour- 
ably born  grandchildren,  or  to  suicide,  or  to  cele- 
bate  addiction  to  cats,  or  to  eugenic  propaganda,  or 
to  perpetual  crape  and  the  boredom  of  a  community, 
or  to  the  fate  of  Abelard,  or  to  the  Fall  of  Troy,  or 
to  the  proud  destiny  of  a  William  the  Conqueror. 
I  repeat  that  it  is  a  ticklish  thing  to  go  and  meddle 
with  it  without  due  consideration.  And  in  some 
cases  consideration  only  increases  the  fortuity  of  its 
results.  Volumes  could  be  written  on  it. 

If  you  think  that  the  kiss  exchanged  between  An- 
drew and  Elodie  had  any  such  immediate  sentimental 
or  tragical  or  heroical  consequences  you  are  mistaken. 
Andrew  responded  with  all  the  grace  in  the  world  to 
the  invitation.  It  was  a  pleasant  and  refreshing  act. 
He  was  grateful  for  her  companionship,  her  sym- 
pathy, arid  her  inspired  counsel.  She  carried  off  her 
frank  comradeship  with  such  an  air  of  virginal  inno- 
cence, and  at  the  same  time  with  such  unconscious 
exposure  of  her  half  fulfilled  womanhood,  that  he 
suffered  no  temptations  of  an  easy  conquest.  The 
kiss  therefore  evoked  no  baser  range  of  emotion.  As 
his  head  was  whirling  with  an  artist's  sudden  con- 
ception—  and,  mark  you,  an  artist's  conception 

71 


72  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

need  no  more  be  a  case  of  parthenogenesis  than  that 
of  the  physical  woman  —  it  had  no  room  for  the 
higher  and  subtler  and  more  romantical  idealizations 
of  the  owner  of  the  kissed  lips.  You  may  put  him 
down  for  an  insensible  young  egoist.  Put  him  down 
for  what  you  will.  His  embrace  was  but  gratefully 
fraternal. 

As  for  Elodie,  if  it  were  not  dangerous  —  she 
had  the  street  child's  instinct  —  what  did  a  kiss  or 
two  matter?  If  one  paid  all  that  attention  to  a  kiss 
one's  life  would  be  a  complicated  drama  of  a  hun- 
dred threads. 

"A  kiss  is  nothing"  —  so  ran  one  of  her  obiter  dicta 
recorded  somewhere  in  the  manuscript  —  "unless 
you  feel  it  in  your  toes.  Then  look  out." 

Evidently  this  kiss  Elodie  did  not  feel  in  her  toes, 
for  she  walked  along  carelessly  beside  him  to  the 
door  of  her  hotel,  a  hostelry  possibly  a  shade  more 
poverty-stricken  in  a  flag  paved  by-street,  a  trifle 
staler-smelling  than  his  own,  and  there  put  out  a 
friendly  hand  of  dismissal. 

"We  will  write  to  each  other?" 

"It  is  agreed." 

"Alors,  au  revoir." 

"Au  revoir,  Elodie,  et  merci." 

And  that  was  the  end  of  it.  Andrew  went  back 
to  Paris  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning,  and  Elodie 
continued  to  dance  in  Avignon. 

If  they  had  maintained,  as  they  vaguely  promised, 
an  intimate  correspondence,  it  might  have  developed, 
according  to  the  laws  of  the  interchange  of  senti- 
ment between  two  young  and  candid  souls,  into  a 
reciprocal  expression  of  the  fervid  state  which  the 
kiss  failed  to  produce.  A  couple  of  months  of  it, 
and  the  pair,  yearning  for  each  other,  would  have 
effected  by  hook  or  crook,  a  delirious  meeting,  and 
young  Romance  would  have  had  its  triumphant 
way.  But  to  the  gods  it  seemed  otherwise.  Andrew 
wrote,  as  in  grateful  duty  bound.  He  wrote  again. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  73 

If  she  had  replied,  he  would  have  written  a  third 
time;  but  as  there  are  few  things  more  discouraging 
than  a  one-sided  correspondence,  he  held  his  hand. 
He  felt  a  touch  of  disappointment.  She  was  such  a 
warm,  friendly  little  creature,  with  a  sagacious  little 
head  on  her  —  by  no  means  the  tete  de  linotte  of  so 
many  of  her  sisters  of  song  and  dance.  And  she  had 
forgotten  him.  He  shrugged  philosophic  shoulders. 
After  all,  why  should  she  trouble  herself  further  with 
so  dull  a  dog?  Man-like  he  did  not  realize  the  diffi- 
culties that  beset  even  a  sagacious-headed  daughter 
of  song  and  dance  in  the  matter  of  literary  compo- 
sition, and  the  temptation  to  postpone  from  day  to 
day  the  grappling  with  them,  until  the  original  im- 
pulse has  spent  itself  through  sheer  procrastination. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  say  that  a  letter  is  an  easy  thing 
to  write,  when  letter-writing  is  a  daily  habit  and  you 
have  writing  materials  and  table  all  comfortably  to 
hand.  But  when,  like  Elodie,  you  would  have  to  go 
into  a  shop  and  buy  a  bottle  of  ink  and  a  pen  and 
paper  and  envelopes  and  take  them  up  to  a  tiny 
hotel  bedroom  shared  with  an  untidy,  space-usurping 
colleague,  or  when  you  would  have  to  sit  at  a  cafe 
table  and  write  under  the  eyes  of  a  not  the  least 
little  bit  discreet  companion  —  for  even  the  emanci- 
pated daughters  of  song  and  dance  cannot,  in  mod- 
esty, show  themselves  at  cafes  .alone;  or  when  you 
have  to  stand  up  in  a  post  office  —  and  then  there 
is  the  paper  and  envelope  difficulty  —  with  a  furious 
person  behind  you  who  wants  to  send  a  telegram  — 
Elodie's  invariable  habit  when  she  corresponded,  on 
the  back  of  a  picture  post  card,  with  her  mother; 
when,  in  fact,  you  have  before  you  the  unprecedented 
task  of  writing  a  letter  —  picture  post  cards  being 
out  of  the  question  —  and  a  letter  whose  flawlessness 
of  expression  is  prescribed  by  your  vanity,  or  better 
by  your  nice  little  self-esteem,  and  you  are  confronted 
by  such  conditions  as  are  above  catalogued,  human 
frailty  may  be  pardoned  for  giving  it  up  in  despair. 


74  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

With  this  apologia  for  Elodie's  unresponsiveness, 
conscientiously  recorded  later  by  Andrew  Lackaday, 
we  will  now  proceed.  The  fact  remains  that  they 
faded  pleasantly  and  even  regretlessly  from  each 
other's  lives. 

There  now  follow  some  years,  in  Lackaday's 
career,  of  high  endeavour  and  fierce  struggle.  He 
has  taken  to  heart  Elodie's  suggestion  of  the  exploita- 
tion of  his  physical  idiosyncracy.  He  seeks  for  a 
formula.  In  the  meanwhile  he  gains  his  livelihood 
as  he  can.  His  powers  of  mimicry  stand  him  in  good 
stead.  In  the  outlying  cafe-concerts  of  Paris,  un- 
known to  fashion  or  the  foreigner,  he  gives  imita- 
tions of  popular  idols  from  Le  Bargy  to  Polin.  But 
the  Ambassadeurs,  and  the  Alcazar  d'Ete  and  the 
Folies  Marigny  and  Olympia  and  such-like  stages 
where  fame  and  fortune  are  to  be  found,  will  have 
none  of  him.  Paris,  too,  gets  on  his  vagabond  nerves. 
But  what  is  the  good  of  presenting  the  unsophisti- 
cated public  of  Brest  or  Beziers  with  an  imitation  of 
Monsieur  le  Bargy?  As  well  give  them  lectures  on 
Thermodynamics. 

Sometimes  he  escapes  from  mimicry.  He  conjures, 
he  juggles,  he  plays  selections  from  Carmen  and 
Cavaleria  Rusticana  on  a  fiddle  made  out  of  a  cigar 
box  and  a  broom-handle.  The  Provinces  accept  him 
with  mild  approbation.  He  tries  Paris,  the  Paris  of 
Menilmontant  and  the  Outer  Boulevards;  but  Paris, 
not  being  amused,  prefers  his  mimicry.  He  is  alone, 
mind  you.  No  more  Coingon  combinations.  If  he 
is  to  be  insulted,  let  the  audience  do  it,  or  the  vul- 
gar theatre  management;  not  his  brother  artists. 
Away  from  his  mutations  he  tries  to  make  the  most 
of  his  grotesque  figure.  He  invents  eccentric  cos- 
tumes; his  sleeves  reach  no  further  than  just  below 
his  elbows,  his  trouser  hems  flick  his  calves;  he 
wears,  inveterate  tradition  of  the  circus  clown,  a 
ridiculously  little  hard  felt  hat  on  the  top  of  his 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  75 

shock  of  carroty  hair.  He  paints  his  nose  red  and 
extends  his  grin  from  ear  to  ear.  He  racks  his  brain 
to  invent  novelties  in  manual  dexterity.  For  hours 
a  day  in  his  modest  chambre  garnie  in  the  Faubourg 
Saint  Denis  he  practises  his  tricks.  On  the  dissolu- 
tion of  the  Cirque  Rocambeau,  where  as  "Auguste" 
he  had  been  practically  anonymous,  he  had  un- 
imaginatively adopted  the  professional  name  of 
Andrew- Andre.  He  is  still  Andrew-Andre.  There  is 
not  much  magic  about  it  on  a  programme.  But,  que 
voulez-vous?  It  is  as  effective  as  many  another. 

During  this  period  we  see  him  a  serious  youth, 
absorbed  in  his  profession,  striving  towards  success, 
not  for  the  sake  of  its  rewards  in  luxurious  living, 
but  for  the  stamp  that  it  gives  to  efficiency.  The 
famous  mountebank  of  Notre  Dame  did  not  juggle 
with  greater  fervour.  Here  and  there  a  woman 
crosses  his  path,  lingers  a  little  and  goes  her  way. 
Not  that  he  is  insensible  to  female  charms,  for  he 
upbraids  himself  for  over-susceptibility.  But  it 
seems  that  from  the  atavistic  source  whence  he  in- 
herited his  beautiful  hands,  there  survived  hi  him  an 
instinct  which  craved  in  woman  the  indefinable 
quality  that  he  could  never  meet,  the  quality  which 
was  common  to  Melisande  and  Phedre  and  Rosa- 
lind and  Fedora  and  the  child-wife  of  David  Copper- 
field.  It  is,  as  I  have  indicated,  the  ladies  who  bid 
him  bonsoir.  Sometimes  he  mourns  for  a  day  or 
two,  more  often  he  laughs,  welcoming  regained 
freedom.  None  touches  his  heart.  Of  men,  he  has 
acquaintances  in  plenty,  with  whom  he  lives  on 
terms _of  good  comradeship;  but  he  has  scarcely  an 
intimate. 

At  last  he  makes  a  friend  —  an  Englishman,  Ho- 
ratio Bakkus;  and  this  friendship  marks  a  turning- 
point  in  his  history. 

They  met  at  a  cafe-concert  in  Montmartre,  which, 
like  many  of  its  kind,  had  an  ephemeral  existence  — 


76  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

the  nearest,  incidentally,  to  the  real  Paris  to  which 
Andrew  Lackaday  had  attained.  It  tried  to  appeal 
to  a  catholicity  of  tastes;  to  outdo  its  rivals  injsca- 
brousness  —  did  not  Farandol  and  Lizette  Blandy 
make  their  names  there?  —  and  at  the  same  time  to 
offer  to  the  purer-minded  an  innocent  entertainment. 
To  the  latter  both  Lackaday,  with  his  imitations, 
and  Horatio  Bakkus,  with  his  sentimental  ballads, 
contributed.  Somehow  the  mixture  failed  to  please. 
The  one  part  scared  the  virtuous,  at  the  other  the 
deboshed  yawned.  La  Doite  Blanche  perished  of 
inanition.  But  during  its  continuance,  Lackaday  and 
Bakkus  had  a  month's  profitable  engagement. 

They  bumped  into  each  other,  on  their  first  night, 
at  the  stage-door.  Each  politely  gave  way  to  the 
other.  They  walked  on  together  and  turned  down 
the  Rue  Pigalle  and,  striking  off,  reached  the  Grands 
Boulevards.  The  Brasserie  Tourtel  enticed  them. 
They  entered  and  sat  down  to  a  modest  supper, 
sandwiches  and  brown  beer. 

"I  wish,"  said  Andrew,  "you  would  do  me  the 
pleasure  to  speak  English  with  me." 

"Why?"  cried  the  other.  "Is  my  French  so 
villainous?" 

"By  no  means,"  said  Andrew,  "but  I  am  an 
Englishman." 

"Then  how  the  devil  do  you  manage  to  talk  both 
languages  like  a  Frenchman?" 

"Why?    Is  my  English  then  so  villainous?" 

He  mimicked  him  perfectly.  Horatio  Bakkus 
laughed. 

"Young  man,"  said  he,  "I  wish  I  had  your  gift." 

"And  I  yours." 

"  It's  the  rottenest  gift  a  man  can  be  born  with," 
cried  Bakkus  with  startling  vindictiveness.  "It 
turns  him  into  an  idle,  sentimental,  hypocritical  and 
dissolute  hound.  If  I  hadn't  been  cursed  young  with 
a  voice  like  a  Cherub,  I  should  possibly  be  on  the 
same  affable  terms  with  the  Almighty  as  my  brother, 


77 

the  Archdeacon,  or  profitably  paralysing  the  intel- 
lects of  the  young  like  my  brother,  the  preparatory 
schoolmaster." 

He  was  a  lean  and  rusty  man  of  forty,  with  long 
black  hair  brushed  back  over  his  forehead,  and 
cadaverous  cheeks  and  long  upper  lip  which  all  the 
shaving  in  the  world  could  not  redeem  for  the  blue 
shade  of  the  strong  black  beard  which  at  midnight 
showed  almost  black.  But  for  his  black,  mocking 
eyes,  he  might  have  been  taken  for  the  seedy  pro- 
vincial tragedian  of  the  old  school. 

"Young  man "  said  he. 

"My  name,"  said  Andrew,  "is  Lackaday." 

"And  you  don't  like  people  to  be  familiar  and  take 
liberties." 

Andrew  met  the  ironical  glance.  "  That  is  so,"  said 
he  quietly. 

"Then,  Mr.  Lackaday 

"You  can  omit  the  'Mr.,'"  said  Andrew,  "if  you 
care  to  do  so." 

"You're  more  English  than  I  thought,"  smiled 
Horatio  Bakkus. 

"I'm  proud  that  you  should  say  so,"  replied  An- 
drew. 

"  I  was  about  to  remark,"  said  Bakkus,  "when  you 
interrupted  me,  that  I  wondered  why  a  young  Eng- 
lishman of  obviously  decent  upbringing  should  be 
pursuing  this  contemptible  form  of  livelihood." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Andrew,  pausing  in  the 
act  of  conveying  to  his  mouth  a  morsel  of  sandwich. 
He  was  puzzled;  comrades  down  on  their  luck  had 
cursed  the  profession  for  a  sale  metier  and  had  wished 
they  were  road  sweepers;  but  he  had  never  heard 
it  called  contemptible.  It  was  a  totally  new  con- 
ception. 

Bakkus  repeated  his  words  and  added:  "It  is  be- 
low the  dignity  of  one  made  in  God's  image." 

"I  am  afraid  I  do  not  agree  with  you,"  replied 
Andrew,  stiffly.  "I  was  born  in  the  profession  and 


78  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

honourably  bred  in  it  and  I  have  known  no  other  and 
do  not  wish  to  know  any  other." 

"You  were  born  an  imitator?  It  seems  rather  a 
narrow  scheme  of  life." 

"  I  was  born  in  a  circus,  and  whatever  there  could 
be  learned  in  a  circus  I  was  taught.  And  it  was,  as 
you  have  guessed,  a  decent  upbringing.  By  Gum, 
it  was!"  he  added,  with  sudden  heat. 

"And  you're  proud  of  it?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  I've  got  anything  else  to  be  proud 
of,"  said  Andrew. 

"And  you  must  be  proud  of  something?" 

"If  not  you  had  better  be  dead,"  said  Andrew. 

"Ah!"  said  Bakkus,  and  went  on  with  his  supper. 

Andrew,  who  had  hitherto  held  himself  on  the  de- 
fensive against  impertinence,  and  was  disposed  to 
dislike  the  cynical  attitude  of  his  new  acquaintance, 
felt  himself  suddenly  disarmed  by  this  "Ah!"  Per- 
haps he  had  dealt  too  cruel  a  blow  at  the  disillusioned 
owner  of  the  pretty  little  tenor  voice  in  which  he 
could  not  take  very  much  pride.  Bakkus  broke  a 
silence  by  remarking: 

"  I  envy  you  your  young  enthusiasm.  You  don't 
think  it  better  we  were  all  dead?" 

"I  should  think  not!"  cried  Andrew. 

"You  say  you  know  all  that  a  circus  can  teach 
you.  What  does  that  mean?  You  can  ride  bare 
back  and  jump  through  hoops?" 

"I  learned  to  do  that  —  for  Clown's  business," 
replied  Andrew.  "But  that's  no  good  to  me  now. 
I  am  a  professional  juggler  and  conjurer  and  trick 
musician.  I'm  also  a  bit  of  a  gymnast  and  sufficient 
of  a  contortionist  to  do  eccentric  dancing." 

Bakkus  took  a  sip  of  beer,  and  regarded  him  with 
his  mocking  eyes. 

"  And  you'd  sooner  keep  on  throwing  up  three  balls 
in  the  Bir  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  life  than  just 
be  comfortably  dead?  I  should  like  to  know  your 
ideas  on  the  point.  What's  the  good  of  it  all?  Sup- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  79 

posing  you're  the  most  wonderful  expert  that  ever 
lived  —  supposing  you  could  keep  up  fifty  balls  in 
the  air  at  the  same  time,  and  could  balance  fifty 
billiard  cues,  one  on  top  of  another,  on  your  nose  — 
what's  the  good  of  it?" 

Andrew  rubbed  his  head.  Such  problems  had  never 
occurred  to  him.  Old  Ben  Flint' s  philosophy  pounded 
into  him,  at  times  literally  with  a  solid  and  well- 
deserved  paternal  cuff,  could  be  summed  up  in  the 
eternal  dictum:  "That  which  thou  hast  to  do,  do  it 
with  all  thy  might."  It  was  the  beginning  and  end 
of  his  rule  of  life.  He  looked  not,  nor  thought  of 
looking,  further.  And  now  came  this  Schopenhaurian 
with  his  question.  "What's  the  good  of  it?" 

"I  suppose  I'm  an  artist,  in  my  way,"  he  replied, 
modestly. 

"Artist?"  Bakkus  laughed  derisively.  "Pardon 
me,  but  you  don't  know  what  the  word  means.  An 
artist  interprets  nature  in  concrete  terms  of  emo- 
tion, in  words,  in  colour,  in  sound,  in  stone  —  I  don't 
say  that  he  deserves  to  live.  I  could  prove  to  you, 
if  I  had  time,  that  Michael  Angelo  and  Dante  and 
Beethoven  were  the  curses  of  humanity.  Much 
better  dead.  But,  anyhow,  they  were  artists.  Even 
I  with  my  tinpot  voice  singing  'Annie  Laurie'  and 
'The  Sands  of  Dee'  and  such-like  clap-trap  which 
brings  a  lump  in  the  throat  of  the  grocer  and  his  wife, 
am  an  artist.  But  you,  my  dear  fellow  —  with  your 
fifty  billiard  cues  on  top  of  your  nose?  There's  a 
devil  of  a  lot  of  skill  about  it  of  course  —  but  nothing 
artistic.  It  means  nothing." 

"Yet  if  I  could  perform  the  feat,"  said  Andrew, 
"thousands  and  thousands  of  people  would  come  to 
see  me;  more  likely  a  million." 

"No  doubt.  But  what  would  be  the  good  of  it, 
when  you  had  done  it  and  they  had  seen  it?  Sheer 
waste  of  half  your  lifetime  and  a  million  hours  on 
the  part  of  the  public,  which  is  over  forty  thousand 
days,  which  is  over  a  hundred  years.  Fancy  a  cen- 


80  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

tury  of  the  world's  energy  wasted  in  seeing  you  bal- 
ance billiard  cues  on  the  end  of  your  nose!" 

Andrew  reflected  for  a  long  time,  his  elbow  on  the 
cafe  table,  his  hand  covering  his  eyes.  There  must 
surely  be  some  fallacy  in  this  remorseless  argument 
which  reduced  his  life's  work  to  almost  criminal 
futility.  At  last  light  reached  him.  He  held  out  his 
other  hand  and  raised  his  head. 

" Attendez.  I  must  say  in  French  what  has  come 
into  my  mind.  Surely  I  am  an  artist  according  to 
your  definition.  I  interpret  nature,  the  marvellous 
human  mechanism  in  terms  of  emotion  —  the  emo- 
tion of  wonder.  The  balance  of  fifty  billiard  cues 
gives  the  million  people  the  same  catch  at  the  throat 
as  the  song  or  the  picture,  and  they  lose  themselves 
for  an  hour  in  a  new  revelation  of  the  possibilities 
of  existence,  and  so  I  save  the  world  a  hundred  years 
of  the  sorrow  and  care  of  life." 

Bakkus  looked  at  him  approvingly.  "Good,"  said 
he.  "Very  good.  Thank  God,  I've  at  last  come 
across  a  man  with  a  brain  that  isn't  atrophied  for 
want  of  use.  I  love  talking  for  talking's  sake  —  good 
talk  — don't  you?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  do,"  replied  Andrew  honestly, 
"I  have  never  thought  of  it." 

"But  you  must,  my  dear  Lackaday.  You  have 
no  idea  how  it  stimulates  your  intellect.  It  crystal- 
lizes your  own  vague  ideas  and  sends  you  away  with 
the  comforting  conviction  of  what  a  damned  fool  the 
other  fellow  is.  It's  the  cheapest  recreation  in  the 
world  —  when  you  can  get  it.  And  it  doesn't  matter 
whether  you're  in  purple  and  fine  linen  or  in  rags  or 
in  the  greasy  dress-suit  of  a  cafe-concert  singer." 
He  beckoned  the  waiter.  "Shall  we  go?" 

They  parted  outside  and  went  their  respective 
ways.  The  next  night  they  again  supped  together, 
and  the  night  after  that,  until  it  became  a  habit. 
In  his  long  talks  with  the  idle  and  cynical  tenor, 
Andrew  learned  many  things. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  81 

Now,  parenthetically,  certain  facts  in  the  previous 
career  of  Andrew  Lackaday  have  to  be  noted. 

Madame  Flint  had  brought  him  up  nominally  in 
the  Roman  Catholic  Faith,  which  owing  to  his  peri- 
patetic existence  was  a  very  nebulous  affair  without 
much  real  meaning;  and  Ben  Flint,  taking  more 
pains,  had  reared  him  in  a  sturdy  Lancashire  Fear 
of  God  and  Duty  towards  his  Neighbour  and  Duty 
towards  himself,  and  had  given  him  the  Golden 
Rule  above  mentioned.  Ben  had  also  seen  to  his 
elementary  education,  so  that  the  regime  du  par- 
ticipe  passe  had  no  difficulties  for  him,  and  Racine 
and  Bossuet  were  not  empty  names,  seeing  that  he 
had  learned  by  heart  extracts  from  the  writings  of 
these  immortals  in  his  school  primer.  That  they 
conveyed  little  to  him  but  a  sense  of  paralysing  bore- 
dom is  neither  here  nor  there.  And  Ben  Flint,  most 
worthy  and  pertinacious  of  Britons,  for  the  fourteen 
impressionable  years  during  which  he  was  the  arbiter 
of  young  Andrew's  destiny,  never  for  an  hour  allowed 
him  to  forget  that  he  was  an  Englishman.  That 
Andrew  should  talk  French,  his  stepmother  tongue, 
to  all  the  outside  world  was  a  matter  of  necessity. 
But  if  he  addressed  a  word  of  French  to  him,  Ben 
Flint,  there  was  the  devil  to  pay.  And  if  he  picked 
up  from  the  English  stable  hands  vulgarisms  and 
debased  vowel  sounds,  Ben  Flint  had  the  genius  to 
compel  their  rejection. 

"My  father,"  writes  Lackaday  —  for  as  such  he 
always  regarded  Ben  Flint  —  "was  the  most  re- 
markable man  I  have  ever  known.  That  he  loved 
me  with  his  whole  nature  I  never  doubted  and  I 
worshipped  the  ground  on  which  he  trod.  But 
he  was  remorseless  in  his  enforcement  of  obedience. 
Looking  back,  I  am  lost  in  wonder  at  his  achieve- 
ment." 

Still,  even  Ben  Flint  could  not  do  everything.  The 
eternal  precepts  of  morality,  the  colloquial  practice 
of  English  speech,  the  ineradicable  principles  of  Eng- 


82  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

lish  birth  and  patriotism,  the  elementary  though 
thorough  French  education,  the  intensive  physical 
training  in  all  phases  of  circus  life,  took  every 
hour  that  Ben  Flint  could  spare  from  his  strenuous 
professional  career  as  a  vagabond  circus  clown.  I 
who  knew  Ben  Flint,  and  drank  of  his  wisdom  gained 
in  many  lands,  have  been  disposed  to  wonder  why 
he  did  not  empty  it  to  broaden  the  intellectual  and 
aesthetic  horizon  of  his  adopted  son.  But  on  think- 
ing over  the  matter  —  how  could  he?  He  had  spent 
all  his  time  in  filling  up  the  boy  with  essentials.  Just 
at  that  time  when  Andrew  might  have  profited  by 
the  strong,  rough  intellectuality  that  had  so  greatly 
attracted  me  as  a  young  man,  Ben  Flint  died.  In 
the  realm  of  gymnasts,  jugglers,  circus-riders,  dancers 
in  which  Andrew  had  thence  found  his  being,  there 
was  no  one  to  replace  the  mellow  old  English  clown, 
who  travelled  around  with  Sterne  and  Montaigne  and 
Shakespeare  and  Bunyan  and  the  Bible,  as  the  only 
books  of  his  permanent  library.  Such  knowledge  as 
he  possessed  of  the  myriad  activities  of  the  great 
world  outside  his  professional  circle  he  had  picked 
up  in  aimless  and  desultory  reading. 

In  Horatio  Bakkus,  therefore,  Andrew  met  for  the 
first  time  a  human  being  interested  in  the  intellectual 
aspect  of  life;  one  who  advanced  outrageous  propo- 
sitions just  for  the  joy  of  supporting  them  and  of 
refuting  counter-arguments;  one,  in  fact,  who,  to  his 
initial  amazement,  could  juggle  with  ideas  as  he 
juggled  with  concrete  objects.  In  this  companion- 
ship he  found  an  unknown  stimulus.  He  would  bid 
his  friend  adieu  and  go  away,  his  brain  catching 
feverishly  at  elusive  theories  and  new  conceptions. 
Sometimes  he  went  off  thrilled  with  a  sense  of  intel- 
lectual triumph.  He  had  beaten  his  adversary.  He 
had  maintained  his  simple  moral  faith  against  in- 
genious sophistry.  He  realized  himself  as  a  thinking 
being,  impelled  by  a  new  force  to  furnish  himself 
with  satisfying  reasons  for  conduct.  It  was  through 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  83 

Horatio  Bakkus  that  he  discovered  The  Venus 
of  Milo  and  Marcus  Aurelius  and  Longchamps 
races.  .  .  . 

From  the  last  he  derived  the  most  immediate 
benefit. 

"If  you've  never  been  to  a  race-meeting,"  said 
Bakkus,  "you've  missed  one  of  the  elementary  op- 
portunities of  a  liberal  education.  Nowhere  else  can 
you  have  such  a  chance  of  studying  human  imbecility, 
knavery  and  greed.  You  can  also  glut  your  eyes  with 
the  spectacle  of  useless  men,  expensive  women,  and 
astounded,  sensitive  animals." 

"I  prefer,"  replied  Andrew,  with  his  wide  grin,  "to 
keep  my  faith  in  mankind  and  horses." 

"And  I,"  said  Bakkus,  "love  to  realize  myself  for 
what  I  really  am,  an  imbecile,  a  knave,  and  a  use- 
less craver  of  money  for  which  I've  not  had  the  in- 
dignity of  working.  It  soothes  me  to  feel  that  for 
all  my  heritage  of  culture  I  am  nothing  more  or  less 
than  one  of  the  rabble-rout.  I've  backed  horses  ever 
since  I  was  a  boy  and  in  my  time  I've  had  a  pure 
delight  in  pawning  my  underwear  in  order  to  do  so." 

"It  seems  to  be  the  height  of  folly,"  said  sober 
Andrew. 

Bakkus  regarded  him  with  his  melancholy  mock- 
ing eyes. 

"To  paraphrase  a  remark  of  yours  on  the  occasion 
of  our  first  meeting  —  if  a  man  is  not  a  fool  in  some- 
thing he  were  better  dead.  At  any  rate  let  me  show 
you  this  fool's  playground." 

So  Andrew  assented.  They  went  to  Longchamps, 
humbly,  on  foot,  mingling  with  the  Paris  crowd. 
Bakkus  wore  a  sun-stained  brown  and  white  check 
suit  and  an  old  grey  bowler  hat  and  carried  a  pair 
of  racing-glasses  slung  across  his  shoulders,  all  of 
which  transformed  his  aspect  from  that,  in  evening 
dress,  of  the  broken  old  tragedian  to  that  of  the 
bookmaker's  tout  rejected  of  honest  bookmaking 
men.  As  for  Andrew,  he  made  no  change  in  his 


84  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

ordinary  modest  ill-fitting  tweeds,  of  which  the 
sleeves  were  never  long  enough;  and  his  long  red 
neck  mounted  high  above  the  white  of  his  collar  and 
his  straw  hat  was,  as  usual,  clamped  on  the  carroty 
thatch  of  his  hair.  For  them  no  tickets  for  stands, 
lawn  or  enclosure.  The  far  off  gaily  dressed  crowd 
in  these  exclusive  demesnes  shimmered  before  An- 
drew's vision  as  remote  as  some  radiant  planetary 
choir.  The  stir  on  the  field,  however,  excited  him. 
The  sun  shone  through  a  clear  air  on  this  late  meet- 
ing of  the  season,  investing  it  with  an  air  of  innocent 
holiday  gaiety  which  stultified  Bakkus's  bleak  de- 
scription. And  Andrew's  great  height  overtopping 
the  crowd  afforded  him  a  fair  view  of  the  course. 

Bakkus  came  steeped  in  horse-lore  and  confidently 
prophetic.  To  the  admiration  of  Andrew  he  ran 
through  the  entries  for  each  race,  analysing  their 
histories,  summarizing  their  form,  and  picking  out 
dead  certainties  with  an  esoteric  knowledge  derived 
from  dark  and  mysterious  sources.  Andrew  followed 
him  to  the  booths  of  the  Pari  Mutuel,  and  betting 
his  modest  five  franc  piece,  on  each  of  the  first  two 
events,  found  Bakkus  infallible.  But  on  looking 
down  the  list  of  entries  for  the  great  race  of  the  day 
he  was  startled  to  find  a  name  which  he  had  only 
once  met  with  before  and  which  he  had  all  but  for- 
gotten. It  was  "Elodie." 

"My  friend,"  said  Bakkus,  "now  is  the  time  to 
make  a  bold  bid  for  a  sure  fortune.  There  is  a  horse 
called  Goffredo  who  is  quoted  in  the  sacred  inner 
ring  of  those  that  know  at  8  to  1.  I  have  informa- 
tion withheld  from  this  boor  rabble,  that  he  will  win, 
and  that  he  will  come  out  at  about  15  to  1.  I  shall 
therefore  invest  my  five  louis  in  the  certain  hope  of 
seventy-five  beautiful  golden  coins  clinking  into  my 
hand.  Come  thou  and  do  likewise." 

"I'm  going  to  back  Elodie,"  said  Andrew. 

Bakkus  stared  at  him.  "Elodie  —  that  ambula- 
tory assemblage  of  cat's  meat!  Why  she  has  never 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  85 

been  placed  in  a  race  in  her  life.  Look  at  her."  He 
pulled  Andrew  as  near  the  railings  as  they  could 
get  and  soon  picked  her  out  of  the  eight  or  nine 
cantering  down  the  straight  —  a  sleek,  mild,  con- 
tented bay  whose  ambling  gentleness  was  greeted 
with  a  murmur  of  derision.  "Did  you  ever  see 
such  a  cow?" 

"I  like  the  look  of  her,"  said  Andrew. 

"  Why  —  in  the  name  of  — 

"She  looks  as  if  she  would  be  kind  to  children," 
replied  Andrew. 

They  rushed  quickly  to  the  Pari  Mutuel.  Bakkus 
paid  his  five  louis  for  his  Goffredo  ticket.  He  turned 
to  seek  Andrew,  but  Andrew  had  gone.  In  a  mo- 
ment or  two  they  met  among  the  scurrying  swarm 
about  the  booths. 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"I've  put  a  louis  on  Elodie,"  said  Andrew. 

"The  next  time  I  want  to  give  you  a  happy  day 
I'll  take  you  to  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Asso- 
ciation," said  Bakkus  witheringly. 

"Let  us  see  the  race,"  said  Andrew. 

They  paid  a  franc  apiece  for  a  stand  on  a  bench 
and  watched  as  much  of  the  race  as  they  could  see. 
And  Bakkus  forgot  to  share  his  glasses  with  Andrew, 
who  caught  now  and  then  an  uncomprehending  sight 
of  coloured  dots  on  moving  objects  and  gaped  in 
equally  uncomprehensible  bewilderment  when  the 
racing  streak  flashed  home  up  the  straight.  A  strange 
cry,  not  of  gladness  but  of  wonder,  burst  from  the 
great  crowd.  Andrew  turned  to  Bakkus,  who,  with 
glasses  lowered,  was  looking  at  him  with  hollow  eyes 
from  which  the  mockery  had  fled. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Andrew. 

"  The  matter?  Your  running  nightmare  has  won. 
Why  the  devil  couldn't  you  have  given  me  the  tip? 
You  must  have  known  something.  No  one  could 
play  such  a  game  without  knowing.  It's  damned 
unfriendly." 


86  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"  Believe  me,  I  had  no  tip,"  Andrew  protested.  "  I 
never  heard  of  the  beast  before." 

"Then  why  the  blazes  did  you  pick  her  out?" 

"  Ah ! "  said  Andrew.  Then  realizing  that  his  philo- 
sophical and  paradoxical  friend  was  in  sordid  earnest 
he  said  mildly: 

"There  was  a  girl  of  that  name  who  once  brought 
me  good  luck." 

The  gambler,  alive  to  superstitious  intuitions,  re- 
pented immediately  of  his  anger. 

"That's  worth  all  the  tips  in  the  world.  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"  I  don't  wear  my  heart  upon  my  sleeve,"  replied 
Andrew. 

So  peace  was  made.  They  joined  the  thin  crowd 
round  their  booth  of  the  Pan"  Mutuel,  mainly  com- 
posed of  place  winners,  and  when  the  placards  of  the 
odds  went  up,  Bakkus  gripped  his  companion's  arm. 

"My  God!  A  hundred  and  three  to  one.  Why 
didn't  you  plank  on  your  last  penny." 

"I'm  very  well  content  with  two  thousand  francs," 
said  Andrew.  "  It's  something  against  a  rainy  day." 

They  reached  the  guichet  and  Andrew  drew  his 
money. 

"  Suppose  the  impossible  animal  hadn't  won  —  you 
would  have  been  rather  sick." 

"No,"  Andrew  replied,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"I  should  have  regarded  my  louis  as  a  tribute  to 
the  memory  of  one  who  did  me  a  great  service." 

"I  believe,"  said  Bakkus,  "that  if  I  could  only 
turn  sentimentalist,  I  should  make  my  fortune." 

"Let  us  go  and  find  a  drink,"  said  Andrew. 

For  the  second  time  Elodie  brought  him  luck.  This 
time  in  the  shape  of  a  hundred  and  three  louis,  a 
goodly  sum  when  one  has  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth. 
And  the  time  came,  at  the  end  of  their  engagement  at 
La  Boite  Blanche,  when  they  lost  even  that  precari- 
ous method  of  existence.  For  the  first  time  in  his 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  87 

life  Andrew  spent  a  month  in  vain  search  for  em- 
ployment. Dead  season  Paris  had  more  variety  ar- 
tists than  it  knew  what  to  do  with.  The  provinces, 
so  the  rehabilitated  Moignon  and  his  confreres,  the 
other  agents,  declared,  in  terms  varying  from  apolo- 
getic stupor  to  frank  brutality,  had  no  use  for  Anotrew- 
Andre  and  his  unique  entertainment. 

"But  what  shall  I  do?"  asked  the  anxious  Andre. 

"Wait,  mon  cher,  we  shall  soon  well  arrange  it," 
said  Moignon. 

"?"  pantomimed  the  other  agents,  with  shrugged 
shoulders  and  helplessly  outspread  hands. 

And  it  happened  too  that  Bakkus,  the  sweet 
ballad-monger,  found  himself  on  the  same  rocks  of 
unemployment. 

"I  have,"  said  he,  one  evening,  when  the  stranded 
pair  were  sitting  outside  a  horrid  little  liquor  re- 
treat with  a  zinc  bar  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis 

—  the  luxury  of  consommations  at  sixty  centimes  on 
the  Grands  Boulevards  had  faded  from  their  dreams 

—  "I  have,  my  dear  friend,  just  enough  to  carry  me 
on  for  a  fortnight." 

"And  I  too,"  said  Andrew. 

"But  your  hundred  louis  at  Longchamps? " 

"They're  put  away,"  said  Andrew. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Bakkus. 

Andrew  detected  a  lack  of  altruism  in  the  pious 
note  of  praise.  He  did  not  love  Bakkus  to  such  a 
pitch  of  brotherly  affection  as  would  warrant  his  re- 
lieving him  of  responsibility  for  self  support.  He 
had  already  fed  Bakkus  for  three  days. 

"They're  put  away,"  he  repeated. 

"  Bring  them  out  of  darkness  into  the  light  of  day," 
said  Bakkus.  "What  are  talents  in  a  napkin?  You 
are  a  capitalist  —  I  am  a  man  with  ideas.  May  I 
order  another  of  this  mastroquet's  bowel-gripping 
absinthes  in  order  to  expound  a  scheme?  Thank 
you,  my  dear  Lackaday.  Out,  encore  une.  Tell  me 
have  you  ever  been  to  England?" 


88  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

'  No,"  said  Lackaday. 
'Have  you  ever  heard  of  Pierrots?" 
'  On  the  stage  —  masked  balls  —  yes." 
'But  real  Pierrots  who  make  money?" 
'  In  England?    What  do  you  mean?  " 
"There  is  in  England  a  blatant,  vulgar,  unimagina- 
tive, hideous  institution  known  as  the  Seaside." 
"Well?"  said  Andrew. 

The  dingy  proprietor  of  the  "Zingue"  brought  out 
the  absinthe.  Bakkus  arranged  the  perforated  spoon, 
carrying  its  lump  of  sugar  over  the  glass  and  began 
to  drop  the  water  from  the  decanter. 

"If  you  will  bear  with  me  for  a  minute  or  two, 
until  the  sugar's  melted,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  a  successful  combination.  Bakkus  sang 
his  ballads  and  an  occasional  humorous  song  of 
the  moment  to  Andrew's  accompaniment  on 
mandolin  or  one-stringed  violin,  and  Andrew  con- 
jured and  juggled  comically,  using  Bakkus  as  his 
dull-witted  foil.  A  complete  little  performance,  the 
patter  and  business  artistically  thought  out  and  per- 
fectly rehearsed.  They  wore  the  conventional  Pierrot 
costume  with  whited  faces  and  black  skull  caps. 

Bakkus,  familiar  with  English  customs,  had  un- 
dertaken to  attend  to  the  business  side  of  their  es- 
tablishment on  the  sands  of  the  great  West  Coast 
resort,  Andrew  providing  the  capital  out  of  his 
famous  hundred  louis.  But  it  came  almost  imper- 
ceptibly to  pass  that  Andrew  made  all  the  arrange- 
ments, drove  the  bargains  and  kept  an  accurate 
account  of  their  varying  finances. 

"You'll  never  be  a  soldier  of  fortune,  my  dear  fel- 
low," said  Bakkus  once,  when,  returning  homewards, 
he  had  wished  to  dip  his  hand  into  the  leather  bag 
containing  the  day's  takings  in  order  to  supply  him- 
self lavishly  with  comforting  liquid. 

"It's  the  very  last  thing  I  want  to  be,"  replied 
Andrew,  hugging  the  bag  tight  under  his  long  arm. 

"You're  bourgeois  to  your  finger-tips,  your  ideal 
of  happiness  is  a  meek  female  in  a  parlour  and  half 
a  dozen  food-sodden  brats." 

Andrew  hunched  his  shoulders  good-naturedly  at 
the  taunt.  A  home,  and  wife  and  offspring  seemed 
rather  desirable  of  attainment. 

"You've  lots  of  money  in  your  pocket  to  pay  for  a 
drink,"  said  he.  "  It's  mere  perversity  that  makes  you 
want  to  touch  the  takings.  We  haven't  counted  them." 

89 


90  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"  Perversity  is  the  only  thing  that  makes  this  rotten 
life  worth  living,"  retorted  Bakkus. 

It  was  his  perversity,  thus  exemplified,  which  com- 
pelled Andrew  to  constitute  himself  the  business 
manager  of  the  firm.  He  had  a  sedate,  inexorable 
way  with  him,  a  grotesque  dignity,  to  which,  for  all 
his  gibes,  Bakkus  instinctively  submitted.  Bakkus 
might  provide  ideas,  but  it  was  the  lank  and  youth- 
ful Andrew  who  saw  to  their  rigid  execution. 

"You've  no  more  soul  than  a  Prussian  drill  ser- 
geant," Bakkus  would  say. 

"And  you've  no  more  notion  of  business  than  a 
Swiss  Admiral,"  Andrew  would  reply. 

"Who  invented  this  elegant  and  disgustingly  hu- 
miliating entertainment?  " 

Andrew  would  laugh  and  give  him  all  the  credit. 
But  when  Bakkus,  in  the  morning,  clamouring 
against  insane  punctuality,  and  demanding  another 
hour's  sloth,  refused  to  leave  his  bed,  he  came  up 
against  an  incomprehensible  force,  and,  entirely 
against  his  will,  found  himself  on  the  stroke  of  eleven 
ready  to  begin  the  performance  on  the  sands.  Some- 
times he  felt  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  kick  An- 
drew, so  mild  and  gentle,  with  his  eternal  idiotic  grin; 
but  he  knew  in  his  heart  that  Andrew  was  not  one 
of  the  idiots  whom  people  kicked  with  impunity.  He 
lashed  him,  instead,  with  his  tongue,  which  Andrew, 
within  limits,  did  not  mind  a  bit.  To  Bakkus,  how- 
ever, Andrew  owed  the  conception  of  their  adventure. 
He  also  owed  to  him  the  name  of  the  combination, 
and  also  the  name  which  was  to  be  professionally  his 
for  the  rest  of  his  stage  career. 

It  all  proceeded  from  the  miraculous  winning  of 
the  mare  Elodie.  Bakkus  had  made  some  indiscreet 
remark  concerning  her  namesake.  Andrew,  quick  in 
his  dignity,  had  made  a  curt  answer.  Ironical  Bakkus 
began  to  hum  the  old  nursery  song: 

//  etait  une  bergere         , 

Et  ron,  ron,  ron,  petit  patapon. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  91 

Suddenly  he  stopped. 

"By  George!  I  have  it!  The  names  that  will 
epater  the  English  bourgeois.  Ron-ron-ron  and  Petit 
Patapon.  I'fl  be  Ron-ron-ron  and  you'll  be  dear 
little  Patapon." 

As  the  English  seaside  public,  however,  when  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  have  never  heard  of  the  shep- 
herdess who  guarded  her  muttons  and  still  less  of 
the  refrain  which  illustrated  her  history,  he  realized 
that  the  names  as  they  stood  would  be  ineffective. 
Ron-ron  and  Patapon  therefore  would  they  be.  But 
Andrew,  remembering  Elodie's  wise  counsel,  stuck 
to  the  "petit."  His  French  instinct  guiding  him,  he 
rejected  Patapon.  Bakkus  found  Ron-ron  an  un- 
meaning appellation.  At  last  they  settled  it.  They 
printed  it  out  in  capital  letters. 

THE  GREAT  PATAPON  AND  LITTLE  PATOU 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  a  board  thus  inscribed  in 
front  of  their  simple  installation  on  the  sands^ad- 
vertised  their  presence. 

Now,  Lackaday  in  his  manuscript  relates  this  Eng- 
lish episode,  not  so  much  as  an  appeal  to  pity  for 
the  straits  to  which  he  was  reduced,  although  he 
winces  at  its  precarious  mountebankery,  and  his 
sensitive  and  respectable  soul  revolts  at  going  round 
with  the  mendicant's  hat  and  thanking  old  women 
and  children  for  pennies,  as  in  order  to  correlate  cer- 
tain influences  and  coincidences  in  his  career.  Elodie 
seems  to  haunt  him.  So  he  narrates  what  seems  to 
be  another  trivial  incident. 

Andrew  was  a  lusty  swimmer.  In  the  old  circus 
summer  days  Ben  Flint  had  seen  to  that.  When- 
ever the  Cirque  Rocambeau  pitched  its  tent  by  sea 
or  lake,  Ben  Flint  threw  young  Andrew  into  the 
water.  So  now  every  morning,  before  the  world 
was  awake,  did  Andrew  go  down  to  the  sea.  Once, 
a  week  after  their  arrival,  did  he,  by  some  magnetic 


92  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

power,  drag  the  protesting  Bakkus  from  his  bed  and 
march  him  down,  from  the  modest  lodgings  in  a 
by-street,  to  the  sea  front  and  the  bathing-machines. 
Magnetic  force  may  bring  a  man  to  the  water,  but 
it  can't  make  him  go  in.  Bakkus  looked  at  the  cold 
grey  water  —  it  was  a  cloudy  morning  —  took  coun- 
sel with  himself  and,  sitting  on  the  sands,  refused  to 
budge  from  the  lesser  misery  of  the  windy  shore.  He 
smoked  the  pipe  of  disquiet  on  an  empty  stomach 
for  the  half-hour  during  which  Andrew  expended  un- 
necessary effort  in  progressing  through  many  miles 
in  an  element  alien  to  man.  In  the  cold  and  sickly 
wretchedness  of  a  cutting  wind,  he  cursed  Andrew 
with  erudite  elaboration.  But  when  Andrew  eventu- 
ally landed,  his  dripping  bathing-suit  clinging  close 
to  his  gigantic  and  bony  figure,  appearing  to  de- 
risive eyes  like  the  skin  covered  fossil  of  a  prehistoric 
monster  of  a  man,  his  bushy  hair  clotted,  like  ruddy 
seaweed,  over  his  staring,  ugly  face,  Bakkus  forgot 
his  woes  and  rolled  on  his  back  convulsed  with  vulgar 
but  inextinguishable  laughter. 

"My  God!"  he  cried  later,  when  summoned  by 
an  angry  Andrew  to  explain  his  impolite  hilarity. 
"You're  the  funniest  thing  on  the  earth.  Why  hide 
the  light  of  your  frame  under  a  bushel  of  clothing? 
My  dear  boy,  I'm  talking  sense"  —  this  was  at  a 
hitherto  unfriendly  breakfast-table  —  "You've  got 
an  extraordinary  physique.  If  I  laughed,  like  a  rude 
beast,  for  which  I  apologize,  the  public  would  laugh. 
There's  money  in  it.  Skin  tights  and  your  hair 
made  use  of,  why  —  you've  got  'em  laughing  before 
you  even  begin  a  bit  of  business.  Why  the  devil 
don't  you  take  advantage  of  your  physical  peculi- 
arities? Look  here,  don't  get  cross.  This  is  what 
I  mean." 

He  pulled  out  a  pencil  and,  pushing  aside  plates 
and  dishes,  began  to  sketch  on  the  table-cloth  with 
his  superficial  artistic  facility.  Andrew  watched  him, 
the  frown  of  anger  giving  way  to  the  knitted  brow  of 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  93 

interest.  As  the  drawing  reached  completion,  he 
thought  again  of  Elodie  and  her  sage  counsel.  Was 
this  her  mental  conception  which  he  had  been  striv- 
ing for  years  to  realize?  He  did  not  find  the  ideal 
incongruous  with  his  lingering  sense  of  romance.  He 
could  take  a  humorous  view  of  anything  but  his  pro- 
fession. That  was  sacred.  Everything  did  he  de- 
vote to  it,  from  his  soul  to  his  skinny  legs  and  arms. 
So  that,  when  Bakkus  had  finished,  and  leaned  back 
to  admire  his  work,  Andrew  drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
his  eyes  shone  as  if  he  had  received  an  inspiration 
from  on  High.  He  saw  himself  as  in  an  apotheosis. 

There  he  was,  self-exaggeratingly  true  to  life,  in- 
ordinately high,  inordinately  thin,  clad  in  tights  that 
reached  to  a  waistband  beneath  his  armpits  giving 
him  miraculous  length  of  leg,  a  low-cut  collar  ac- 
centuating his  length  of  neck,  his  hair  twisted  up  on 
end  to  a  fine  point. 

"And  I  could  pad  the  feet  of  the  tights  and  wear 
high  heels  that  would  give  me  another  couple  of 
inches,"  he  cried  excitedly.  "By  Gum!"  said  he, 
clutching  Bakkus's  shoulder,  a  rare  act  of  de- 
monstrativeness,  "what  a  thing  it  is  to  have 
imagination." 

"Ah!"  said  Bakkus,  "what  a  piece  of  work  is  man! 
How  noble  in  reason!  How  infinite  in  faculty!  in 
form  and  moving,  how  express  and  admirable!  in 
action  how  like  an  angel!  in  apprehension  how  like 
a  god!  the  beauty  of  the  world!  the  paragon  of 
animals!" 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  asked  Andrew. 

Bakkus  waved  a  hand  towards  the  drawing. 

"If  only  I  had  your  application,"  said  he,  "I 
should  make  a  great  name  as  an  illustrator  of 
Hamlet." 

"One  of  these  days,"  said  Andrew,  the  frown  of 
anger  returning  to  his  brow,  "I'll  throw  you  out  of 
the  window." 

"Provided  it  is  not,  as  now,  on  the  ground  floor, 


94  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

you  would  be  committing  an  act  of  the  loftiest  al- 
truism." 

Andrew  returned  to  his  forgotten  breakfast,  and 
poured  out  a  cup  of  tepid  tea. 

"What  would  you  suggest — just  plain  black  or 
red  —  Mephisto  —  or  stripes?" 

He  was  full  of  the  realization  of  the  Elodesque  idea. 
His  brain  became  a  gushing  fount  of  inspiration. 
Hundreds  of  grotesque  possibilities  of  business, 
hitherto  rendered  ineffective!  by  flapping  costume, 
appeared  in  fascinating  bubbles.  He  thought  and 
spoke  of  nothing  else. 

"Once  I  denied  you  the  rank  of  artist,"  said  Bak- 
kus.  "  I  retract.  I  apologize.  No  one  but  an  artist 
would  inflict  on  another  human  being  such  intoler- 
able boredom." 

"But  it's  your  idea,  bless  you,  which  I'm  carrying 
out,  with  all  the  gratitude  in  the  world." 

"  If  you  want  to  reap  the  tortures  of  the  damned," 
retorted  Bakkus,  "just  you  be  a  benefactor." 

Andrew  shrugged  his  shoulders.  That  was  the  way 
of  Horatio  Bakkus,  perhaps  the  first  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  whom  he  had  deliberately  set  out  to  study, 
for  hitherto  he  had  met  only  simple  folk,  good  men 
and  true  or  uncomplicated  fools  and  knaves,  and 
the  paradoxical  humour  of  his  friend  had  been  a 
puzzling  novelty  demanding  comprehension;  the 
first,  therefore,  who  put  him  on  the  track  of  the  ob- 
servation of  the  twists  of  human  character  and  the 
knowledge  of  men.  That  was  the  way  of  Bakkus. 
An  idea  was  but  a  toy  which  he  tired  of  h'ke  a  child 
and  impatiently  broke  to  bits.  Only  a  week  before 
he  had  come  to  Andrew: 

"My  dear  fellow,  I've  got  a  song.  I'm  going  to 
write  it,  set  it  and  sing  it  myself.  It  begins:  - 

/  crept  into  the  halls  of  sleep 
And  watched  the  dreams  go  by. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  95 

I'll  give  you  the  accompaniment  in  a  day  or  two  and 
we'll  try  it  on  the  dog.  It's  a  damned  sight  too  good 
for  them  —  but  no  matter." 

Andrew  was  interested.  The  lines  had  a  little 
touch  of  poetry.  He  refrained  for  some  time  from 
breaking  through  the  gossamer  web  of  the  poet's 
fancy.  At  last,  however,  as  he  heard  nothing  further, 
he  made  delicate  encpiiries. 

"Song?"  cried  Bakkus.  "What  song?  That 
meaningless  bit  of  moonshine  ineptitude  I  quoted 
the  other  day?  I  have  far  more  use  for  my  intellect 
than  degrading  it  to  such  criminal  prostitution." 

Yes,  he  was  beginning  to  know  his  Bakkus.  His 
absorption  in  his  new  character  was  not  entirely  ego- 
tistic. Both  his  own  intelligence  and  his  professional 
experience  told  him  that  here,  as  he  had  worked  out 
the  business  in  his  mind,  was  an  entirely  novel  at- 
traction. In  his  young  enthusiasm  he  saw  hundreds 
crowding  round  the  pitch  on  the  sands.  It  was  as 
much  to  Bakkus's  interest  as  to  his  own  that  the 
new  show  should  succeed.  And  even  before  he  had 
procured  the  costume  from  Covent  Garden,  Bakkus 
professed  intolerable  boredom.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  Bored  or  not,  Bakkus  should  go  through 
with  it.  So  again  under  the  younger  man's  leader- 
ship Bakkus  led  the  strenuous  life  of  rehearsal. 

It  took  quite  a  day  for  then*  fame  to  spread.  On 
the  second  day  they  attracted  crowds.  Money 
poured  in  upon  them.  Little  Patou,  like  a  double- 
tailed  serpent  rearing  himself  upright  on  his  tail  tips, 
appeared  at  first  a  creature  remote,  of  some  ante- 
diluvian race  —  until  he  talked  a  familiar,  disarming 
patter  with  his  human,  disarming  grin.  The  Great 
JPatapon,  contrary  to  jealous  anticipation,  saw  him- 
self welcomed  as  a  contrast  and  received  more  than 
his  usual  meed  of  applause.  This  satisfied,  for  the 
time,  his  singer's  vanity  which  he  professed  so  greatly 
to  despise.  They  entered  on  a  spell  of  halcyon  days. 
NThe  brilliant  sunny  season  petered  out  in  hopeless 


96  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

September,  raw  and  chill.  A  week  had  passed  with- 
out the  possibility  of  an  audience.  Said  Bakkus: 

"  Of  all  the  loathsome  spots  in  a  noisome  universe 
this  is  the  most  purulent.  In  order  to  keep  up  our 
rudimentary  self-respect  we  have  done  our  best  to 
veil  our  personal  identity  as  images  of  the  Almighty 
from  the  higher  promenades  of  the  vulgar.  Our  sole 
associates  have  been  the  blatant  frequenters  of  evil 
smelling  bars.  We've  not  exchanged  a  word  with  a 
creature  approaching  our  intellectual  calibre.  I  am 
beginning  to  conceive  for  you  the  bitter  hatred  that 
one  of  a  pair  of  castaways  has  for  the  other;  and  you 
must  regard  me  with  feelings  of  equal  abhorrence." 

"By  no  means,"  replied  Andrew.  "You  provide 
me  with  occupation,  and  'that  amuses  me." 

As  the  occupation  for  the  dismal  week  had  mainly 
consisted  in  clragging  a  cursing  Bakkus  away  from 
public-house  whisky  on  damp  and  detested  walks, 
and  in  imperturbably  manoeuvring  him  out  of  an 
idle  —  and  potentially  vicious  —  intrigue  with  the 
landlady's  pretty  and  rather  silly  daughter,  his  reply 
brought  a  tragic  scowl  to  Bakkus's  face. 

"There  are  times  when  I  lie  awake,  inventing 
lingering  deaths  for  you.  You  occupy  yourself  too 
much  with  my  affairs.  It's  time  our  partnership  in 
this  degrading  mountebankery  should  cease." 

"Until  it  does,  it's  going  to  be  efficient,"  said  An- 
drew. "  It's  a  come  down  for  both  of  us  to  play  on 
the  sands  and  pass  the  hat  round.  I  hate  it  as  much 
as  you  do,  but  we've  done  it  honourably  and  de- 
cently —  and  we'll  end  up  in  the  same  way." 

"We  end  now,"  said  Bakkus,  staring  out  of  then- 
cheap  lodging  house  sitting-room  window  at  the  dis- 
mal rain  that  veiled  the  row  of  cheap  lodging  houses 
opposite. 

Andrew  made  a  stride  across  the  room,  seized  his 
shoulder  and  twisted  him  round. 

"What  about  our  bookings  next  month?" 

For  their  success  had  brought  them  an  offer  of  a 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  97 

month  certain  from  a  northern  Palladium  syndicate, 
with  prospects  of  an  extended  tour. 

"Dust  and  ashes,"  said  Bakkus. 

"You  may  be  dust,"  cried  Andrew  hotly,  "but  I'm 
damned  if  I'm  ashes." 

Bakkus  bit  and  lighted  a  cheap  cigar  and  threw 
himself  on  the  dilapidated  sofa.  "  No,  my  dear  fel- 
low, if  it  comes  to  that,  I'm  the  ashes.  Dead!  With 
never  a  recrudescent  Phoenix  to  rise  up  out  of  them. 
You're  the  dust,  the  merry  sport  of  the  winds  of 
heaven." 

"Don't  talk  foolishness,"  said  Andrew. 

"Was  there  ever  a  man  living  who  used  his  breath 
for  any  other  purpose?" 

"Then,"  said  Andrew,  "your  talk  about  breaking 
up  the  partnership  is  mere  stupidity." 

"It  is  and  it  isn't,"  replied  Bakkus.  "Although  I 
hate  you,  I  love  you.  You'll  find  the  same  para- 
doxical sentimental  relationship  in  most  cases  be- 
tween man  and  wife.  I  love  you,  and  I  wish  you  well, 
my  dear  boy.  I  should  like  to  see  you  Merry-Andrew 
yourself  to  the  top  of  the  Merry-Andrew  tree.  But 
for  insisting  on  my  accompanying  you  on  that  un- 
comfortable and  strenuous  ascent,  without  very 
much  glory  to  myself,  I  frankly  detest  you." 

"That  doesn't  matter  a  bit  to  me,"  said  Andrew. 
"You've  got  to  carry  out  your  contract." 

Bakkus  sighed.  "Need  I?  What's  a  contract? 
I  say  I  am  willing  to  perform  vocal  and  other  antics 
for  so  many  shillings  a  week.  When  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  my  soul  revolts  at  the  sale  of  itself  for  so  many 
shillings  a  week  to  perform  actions  utterly  at  vari- 
ance with  its  aspirations.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am 
tired.  Thanks  to  my  brain  and  your  physical  co- 
operation, I  have  my  pockets  full  of  money.  I  can 
afford  a  holiday.  I  long  for  bodily  sloth,  for  the 
ragged  intellectual  companionship  that  only  Paris 
can  give  me,  for  the  resumption  of  study  of  the  phil- 
osophy of  the  excellent  Henri  Bergson,  for  the  ab- 


98  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

sinthe  that  brings  forgetfulness,  for  the  Tanagra 
figured,  broad-mouthed,  snub-nosed  shrew  that  fills 
every  day  with  potential  memories." 

"Oh  that's  it,  is  it?"  cried  Andrew,  with  a  glare 
in  his  usually  mild  eyes  and  his  ugly  jaw  set.  They 
had  had  many  passages  at  arms.  Bakkus's  sophis- 
tical rhetoric  against  Andrew's  steady  common 
sense;  and  they  had  sharpened  Andrew's  wit.  But 
never  before  had  they  come  to  a  serious  quarrel. 
Feeling  his  power  he  had  hitherto  exercised  it  with 
humorous  effectiveness.  But  now  the  situation  ap- 
peared entirely  devoid  of  humour.  He  was  coldly 
and  sternly  angry. 

"That's  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  whole  thing? 
It  all  comes  down  to  a  worthless  little  Montmar- 
troise?  For  a  little  thing  of  rien  du  tout,  the  artist,  the 
philosopher,  the  English  public  school  man  will  throw 
over  his  friend,  his  partner,  his  signed  word,  his 
honour?  Mon  Dieu!  Well  go  —  I  can  easily  —  No, 
I'll  not  say  what  I  have  in  my  mind." 

Bakkus  turned  over  on  his  side,  facing  his  adver- 
sary, his  under  arm  outstretched,  the  cigar  in  his 
fingers. 

"  I  love  to  see  youth  perspiring  —  especially  with 
noble  rage.  It  does  it  good,  discharges  the  black 
humours  of  the  body.  If  I  could  perspire  more 
freely  I  should  be  singing  in  Grand  Opera." 

"You  can  break  your  contract  and  I'll  do  without 
you,"  cried  the  furious  Andrew. 

"I'm  not  going  to  break  the  contract,  my  young 
friend,"  replied  Bakkus,  peering  at  him  through  low- 
ered eyelids.  "When  did  I  say  such  a  thing?  We 
end  the  damp  and  dripping  folly  of  the  sands." 

|[We  don't,"  said  Andrew. 

"As  you  will,"  said  Bakkus.  "Again  I  prophesy 
that  you'll  be  drilling  awkward  squads  in  barrack 
yards  before  you've  done.  It's  all  you're  fit  for." 

Andrew  smiled  or  grinned  with  closed  lips.  It  was 
his  grim  smile,  many  years  afterwards  to  become 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  99 

familiar  to  larger  bodies  of  men  than  awkward  squads. 
Once  more  he  had  won  his  little  victory. 

So  peace  was  made.  They  finished  up  the  miserable 
fag  end  of  the  season  and  with  modest  success  car- 
ried out  their  month's  contract  in  the  northern  towns. 
But  even  Andrew's  drastic  leadership  could  not  pre- 
vail on  Bakkus's  indolence  to  sign  an  extension. 
Montmartre  called  him.  An  engagement.  He  also 
spoke  vaguely  of  singing  lessons.  Now  that  Parisians 
had  returned  to  Paris,  he  could  not  afford  to  lose  his 
connections.  With  cynical  frankness  he  also  con- 
fessed his  disinclination  to  be  recognized  in  a  music- 
hall  Punch  and  Judy  show  by  his  brother  the 
Archdeacon. 

"Archdeacons,"  said  Andrew  —  he  had  a  confused 
idea  of  their  prelatical  status,  "don't  go  to  music- 
halls." 

"  They  do  in  this  country,"  said  Bakkus.  "  They're 
everywhere.  They  infest  the  air  like  microbes.  You 
only  have  to  open  your  mouth  and  you  get  your  lungs 
filled  with  them.  It's  a  pestilential  country  and  I've 
done  with  it." 

"All  right,"  replied  Andrew,  "I'll  run  the  show  on 
my  own.' 

But  the  Palladium  syndicate,  willing  to  book  "The 
Great  Patapon  and  little  Patou"  for  a  further  term, 
declined  to  rebook  Little  Patou  by  himself.  He  re- 
turned to  Paris,  where  he  found  Bakkus  wallowing 
in  absinthe  and  philosophic  sloth.- 

"We  might  have  made  our  fortune  in  England," 
said  he. 

Said  Bakkus  coolly  sipping  his  absinthe,  "I  have 
no  desire  to  make  my  fortune.  Have  you?" 

"  I  should  like  to  make  my  name  and  a  big  posi- 
tion," replied  Andrew. 

"And  I,  my  young  friend?  As  the  fag  end  of  the 
comet's  tail  should  I  have  made  my  name  and  a  big 
position?  Ah  egotist!  Egotist!  Sublime  egotist! 
The  true  artist  using  human  souls  as  the  rungs  of 


100  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

his  ladder!  Well,  go  your  ways.  I  have  no  reproach 
against  you.  Now  that  I'm  out  of  your  barrack 
square,  my  heart  is  overflowing  with  love  for  you. 
You  have  ever  a  friend  in  Horatio  Bakkus.  When 
you  fall  on  evil  days  and  you  haven't  a  sou  in  your 
pocket,  come  to  me  —  and  you'll  always  find  an 
inspiration." 

I  wish  you  would  give  me  one  now,"  said  Andrew, 
who  had  spent  a  fruitless  morning  at  the  Agence 
Moignon. 

"You  want  a  foil,  an  intelligent  creature  who  will 
play  up  to  you  —  a  creature  far  more  intelligent 
than  I  am.  A  dog.  Buy  a  dog.  A  poodle." 

"By  Gum!"  cried  Andrew,  "I  believe  you're  right 
again." 

"I'm  never  wrong,"  said  Bakkus.  " Garcon ! "  He 
summoned  the  waiter  and  waved  his  hand  towards 
the  little  accusing  pile  of  saucers.  "  Monsieur  always 
pays  for  my  inspirations." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WE  behold  Petit  Patou  now  definitely  launched 
on  his  career.  Why  the  execution  of  Bak- 
kus's  (literally)  cynical  suggestion  should 
have  met  with  instant  success,  neither  he  nor  Andrew 
nor  Prepimpin,  the  poodle,  nor  anyone  under  heaven 
had  the  faintest  idea.  Perhaps  Prepimpin  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  He  was  young,  excellently 
trained,  and  expensive.  As  to  the  methods  of  his 
training  Andrew  made  no  enquiries.  Better  not. 
But,  brought  up  in  the  merciful  school  of  Ben  Flint, 
in  which  Billy  the  pig  had  many  successors,  both 
porcine  and  canine,  he  had  expert  knowledge  of  what 
kind  firmness  on  the  part  of  the  master  and  sheer 
love  on  that  of  the  animal  could  accomplish. 

Prepimpin  went  through  his  repertoire  with  the 
punctilio  of  the  barrack  square  deprecated  by 
Bakkus. 

"I  buy  him,"  said  Andrew.     "  Viens,  mon  ami." 

Prepimpin  cast  an  oblique  glance  at  his  old  master. 

"  Va-t-en"  said  the  latter. 

"Allans,"  said  Andrew  with  a  caressing  touch  on 
the  dog's  head. 

Prepimpin's  topaz  eyes  gazed  full  into  his  new 
lord's.  He  wagged  the  tuft  at  the  end  of  his  shaven 
tail.  Andrew  knelt  down,  planted  his  fingers  in  the 
lion  shagginess  of  mane  above  his  ears  and  said  in 
the  French  which  Prepimpin  understood: 

"We're  going  to  be  good  friends,  eh?  You're  not 
going  to  play  me  any  dirty  tricks?  You're  going  to 
be  a  good  and  very  faithful  colleague?" 

"You  mustn't  spoil  him,"  said  the  vendor,  fore- 
seeing, according  to  his  lights,  possible  future 
recriminations . 

101 


102  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Andrew,  still  kneeling,  loosed  his  hold  on  the  dog, 
who  forthwith  put  both  paws  on  his  shoulder  and 
tried  to  lick  the  averted  human  face. 

"I've  trained  animals  since  I  was  two  years  old, 
Monsieur  Berguinan.  Please  tell  me  something  that 
I  don't  know."  He  rose.  "Afors,  Prepimpin,  we 
belong  to  each  other.  Viens" 

The  dog  followed  him  joyously.  The  miracle  be- 
yond human  explanation  was  accomplished,  the  love 
at  first  sight  between  man  and  dog. 

Now,  in  the  manuscript  there  is  much  about  Pre- 
pimpin. Lackaday,  generally  so  precise,  has  let  him- 
self go  over  the  love  and  intelligence  of  this  most 
human  of  animals.  To  read  him  you  would  think 
that  Prepimpin  invented  his  own  stage  business  and 
rehearsed  Petit  Patou.  As  a  record  of  dog  and  man 
sympathy  it  is  of  remarkable  interest;  it  has  indeed 
a  touch  of  rare  beauty;  but  as  it  is  a  detailed  his- 
tory of  Prepimpin  rather  than  an  account  of  a  phase 
in  the  career  of  Andrew  Lackaday,  I  must  wring  my 
feelings  and  do  no  more  than  make  a  passing  refer- 
ence to  their  long  and,  from  my  point  of  view,  some- 
what monotonous  partnership.  It  sheds,  however, 
a  light  on  the  young  manhood  of  this  earnest  mounte- 
bank. It  reveals  a  loneliness  ill-becoming  his  years 
—  a  loneliness  of  soul  and  heart  of  which  he  appears 
to  be  unconscious.  Again,  we  have  here  and  there 
the  fleeting  shadow  of  a  petticoat.  In  Stockholm  — 
during  these  years  he  went  far  afield  —  he  fancies 
himself  in  love  with  one  Vera  Karynska  of  vague 
Mid-European  nationality,  who  belongs  to  a  troupe 
of  acrobats.  Vera  has  blue  eyes,  a  deeply  senti- 
mental nature,  and,  alas!  an  unsympathetic  hus- 
band who,  to  Andrew's  young  disgust  depends  on 
her  for  material  support,  seeing  that  every  evening 
he  and  various  other  brutes  of  the  tribe  form  an  in- 
verted pyramid  with  Vera's  amazonian  shoulders  as 
the  apex.  He  is  making  up  a  besotted  mind  to  say, 
"Fly  with  me,"  when  the  Karinski  troupe  vanishes 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  103 

Moscow-wards  and  an  inexorable  contract  drives 
him  to  Dantzic.  In  that  ancient  town,  looking  into 
the  faithful  and  ironical  eyes  of  Prepimpin,  he  thanks 
God  he  did  not  make  a  fool  of  himself. 

You  see,  he  succeeds.  If  you  credited  his  modesty, 
you  would  think  that  Prepimpin  made  Petit  Patou. 
Quod  est  absurdum.  But  the  psychological  fact  re- 
mains that  Andrew  Lackaday  needed  some  magnetic 
contact  with  another  individuality,  animal  or  hu- 
man, to  exhibit  his  qualities.  There,  in  counselling 
splendid  isolation,  Elodie  Figasso,  the  little  Marseilles 
gutter  fairy  was  wrong.  She  saw,  clearly  enough, 
that,  subordinated  to  others,  with  no  chance  of  de- 
veloping his  one  personality  he  must  fail.  But  she 
did  not  perceive  —  and  poor  child,  how  could  she?  — 
that  given  the  dominating  influence  over  any  com- 
bination, even  over  one  poodle  dog,  he  held  the  key 
of  success. 

So  we  see  him,  the  born  leader,  unconscious  of  his 
powers  for  lack  of  opportunity,  instinctively  craving 
their  exercise  for  his  own  spiritual  and  moral  evolu- 
tion, and  employing  them  in  the  benign  mastery  of 
the  dog  Prepimpin. 

They  were  happy  years  of  bourgeois  vagabondage. 
At  first  he  felt  the  young  artist's  soreness  that,  with 
the  exception  of  rare,  sporadic  engagements,  neither 
London  nor  Paris  would  have  him  Once  he  appeared 
at  the  Empire,  in  Leicester  Square,  an  early  turn, 
and  kept  on  breaking  bits  of  his  heart  every  day,  for 
a  week,  when  the  curtain  went  down  in  the  thin 
applause  that  is  worse  than  silence. 

"Prepimpin  felt  it,"  he  writes,  "even  more  than 
I  did.  He  would  follow  me  off,  with  his  head  bowed 
down  and  his  tail-tuft  sweeping  the  floor,  so  that  I 
could  have  wept  over  his  humiliation." 

Why  the  great  capitals  fail  to  be  amused^  is  a 
perpetual  mystery  to  Andrew  Lackaday.  Prepim- 
pin and  he  give  them  the  newest  things  they  can  think 
of.  After  weeks  and  weeks  of  patient  rehearsal,  they 


104  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

bring  a  new  trick  to  perfection.  It  is  the  clou  of 
Itheir  performance  for  a  week's  engagement  at  the 
Paris  Folies-Bergere.  After  a  conjuring  act,  he  re- 
tires. Comes  on  again  immediately,  Petit  Patou, 
apparently  seven  foot  high,  in  the  green  silk  tights 
reaching  to  the  arm-pit  waist,  a  low  frill  round  his 
neck,  his  hair  up  to  a  point,  a  perpetual  grin  painted 
on  his  face.  On  the  other  side  enters  Prepimpin  on 
hind  legs,  bearing  an  immense  envelope.  Petit  Patou 
opens  it  —  shows  the  audience  an  invitation  to  a  ball. 

"Ah!  dress  me,  Prepimpin." 

The  dog  pulls  a  hidden  string  and  Petit  Patou  is 
clad  in  a  bottle  green  dress-coat.  Prepimpin  barks 
and  dances  his  delight. 

"But  nom  dun  chien,  I  can't  go  to  a  ball  without 
a  hat." 

Prepimpin  bolts  to  the  wings  and  returns  with  an 
opera  hat. 

"And  a  stick." 

Prepimpin  brings  the  stick. 

"And  a  cigar." 

Prepimpin  rushes  to  a  little  table  at  the  back  of 
the  stage  and  on  his  hind  legs  offers  a  box  of  cigars 
to  his  master,  who  selects  one  and  lights  it.  He  be- 
gins the  old  juggler's  trick  of  the  three  objects.  The 
dog  sits  on  his  haunches  and  watches  him.  There 
is  patter  in  which  the  audience  is  given  to  under- 
stand that  Prepimpin,  who  glances  from  time  to 
time  over  the  footlights,  with  a  shake  of  his  leonine 
mane,  is  bored  to  death  by  his  master's  idiocy.  At 
last  the  hat  descends  on  Petit  Patou's  head,  the 
crook-handled  stick  falls  on  his  arm,  and  he  looks 
about  in  a  dazed  way  for  the  cigar,  and  then  he  sees 
Prepimpin,  who  has  caught  it,  swaggering  off  on  his 
hind  legs,  the  still  lighted  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

"No,"  writes  Lackaday,  "it  was  a  failure.  Poor 
Prepimpin  and  I  left  Paris  with  our  tails  between 
our  legs.  We  were  to  start  a  tour  at  Bordeaux. 
'Mon  pauvre  ami,'  said  I,  on  the  journey  —  Pre- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  105 

pimpin  never  suffered  the  indignity  of  a  dog  cage  — 
There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  It  is  you  who 
will  be  going  to  the  ball  and  will  juggle  with  the 
three  objects,  and  I  who  will  catch  the  cigar  in  my 
mouth.'  But  it  was  not  to  be.  At  Bordeaux  and 
all  through  the  tour  we  had  a  succes  /ow." 

Thus  Andrew  washed  his  hands  of  Paris  and  Lon- 
don and  going  where  he  was  appreciated  roved  the 
world  in  quiet  contentment.  He  was  young,  rather 
scrupulously  efficient  within  his  limits,  than  ambi- 
tious, and  of  modest  wants,  sober  habits,  and  of  a 
studious  disposition  which  his  friendship  with  Ho- 
ratio Bakkus  had  both  awakened  and  stimulated. 
Homeless  from  birth  he  never  knew  the  nostalgia 
which  grips  even  the  most  deliberately  vagrant  of 
men.  As  his  ultimate  goal  he  had  indeed  a  vague 
dream  of  a  home  with  wife  and  children  —  one  of 
these  days  in  the  future,  when  he  had  put  by  enough 
money  to  justify  such  luxuries.  And  then  there  was 
the  wife  to  find.  In  a  wife  sewing  by  lamp-light  be- 
tween a  red-covered  round  table  and  the  fire,  a 
flaxen  haired  cherub  by  her  side  —  for  so  did  his 
ingenuous  inexperience  picture  domestic  happiness 
—  he  required  the  dominating  characteristic  of  an- 
gelic placidity.  Perhaps  his  foster-mother  and  the 
comfort  Ben  Flint  found  in  her  mild  and  phlegmatic 
devotion  had  something  to  do  with  it. 

In  his  manuscript  he  tries  to  explain  —  and 
flounders  about  in  a  psychological  bog  —  that  his 
ideal  woman  and  his  ideal  wife  are  two  totally  dif- 
ferent conceptions.  The  woman  who  could  satisfy 
all  his  romantic  imaginings  was  the  Princesse  Loin- 
taine  —  the  Highest  Common  Factor  of  the  ladies 
I  have  already  mentioned  —  Melisande,  Phedre, 
Rosalind,  Fedora,  and  Dora  Copper-field  —  it  is  at 
this  stage  that  he  mentions  them  by  name,  having 
extended  his  literary  horizon.  Her  he  did  not  see 
sewing,  in  ox-eyed  serenity,  by  a  round  table  covered 
with  a  red  cloth.  With  Her  it  was  a  totally  different 


106  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

affair.  It  was  a  matter  of  spring  and  kisses  and  a 
perfect  spiritual  companionship.  ...  As  I  have 
said,  he  gets  into  a  terrible  muddle.  Anyhow,  be- 
tween the  two  conflicting  ideals,  he  does  not  fall  to 
the  ground  of  vulgar  amours.  At  the  risk  of  tedium 
I  feel  bound  to  insist  on  this  aspect  of  his  life.  For 
in  the  errant  cosmopolitan  world  in  which  he,  irre- 
sponsible and  now  well  salaried  bachelor  had  his 
being,  he  was  thrown  into  the  free  and  easy  com- 
radeship of  hundreds  of  attractive  women,  as  free 
and  irresponsible  as  himself.  He  lived  in  a  sea  of 
temptation.  On  the  other  hand,  I  should  be  doing 
as  virile  a  creature  as  ever  walked  a  great  wrong  if 
I  presented  him  to  you  under  the  guise  of  a  Joseph 
Andrews.  He  had  his  laughter  and  his  champagne 
and  his  kisses  on  the  wing.  But  it  was: 

"We'll  meet  again  one  of  these  days." 

"One  of  these  days  when  our  paths  cross  again." 

And  so  —  in  effect  —  Bon  soir. 

I.t  is  difficult  to  compress  into  a  page  or  two  the 
history  of  several  years.  But  that  is  what  I  have 
to  do. 

He  is  not  wandering  all  the  time  over  France,  or 
flashing  meteor-like  about  Europe.  He  has  periods 
of  repose,  enforced  and  otherwise.  But  his  position 
being  ensured,  he  has  no  anxieties.  Paris'  is  his 
headquarters.  He  lives  still  in  his  old  hotel  meuble 
in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis.  But  instead  of  one 
furnished  room  on  the  fifth  floor,  he  can  afford  an 
apartment,  salon,  salle  a  manger,  bedrooms,  cabinet 
de  toilette,  on  the  prosperous  second,  which  he  re- 
tains all  the  year  round.  And  Petit  Patou  can  now 
stride  through  the  waiting  crowd  in  Moignpn's  ante- 
chamber and  enter  the  sacred  office,  cigar  in  mouth, 
and  with  a  "look  here,  mon  vieux"  put  the  fear  of 
God  into  him.  Petit  Patou  and  Prepimpin,  the  idels 
of  the  Provinces,  have  arrived. 
^  In  Paris,  when  their  presences  coincide,  he  con- 
tinues to  consort  with  Bakkus,  whose  exquisite  little 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  107 

tenor  voice  still  affords  him  a  means  of  livelihood. 
In  fact  Bakkus  has  had  a  renewed  lease  of  profes- 
sional activity.  He  sings  at  watering  places,  at 
palace  hotels;  which  involves  the  physical  activity 
which  he  abhors. 

"Bound  to  this  Ixion  wheel  of  perpetual  motion," 
says  he,  "I  suffer  tortures  unimagined  even  by  the 
High  Gods.  Compared  with  it  our  degrading  experi- 
ence on  the  sands  seven  years  ago  was  a  blissful 
idyll." 

"  By  Gum ! "  says  Andrew,  "  seven  years  ago.  Who 
would  have  thought  it?" 

"Yes,  who?"  scowled  the  pessimist,  now  getting 
grey  and  more  gaunt  of  blue,  ill-shaven  cheek.  "To 
me  it  is  seven  aeons  of  Promethean  damnation." 

"To  me  it  seems  only  yesterday,"  says  Andrew. 

"It's  because  you  have  no  brain,"  says  Bakkus. 

But  they  are  good  friends.  Away  from  Paris  they 
carry  on  a  fairly  regular  correspondence.  Such  of 
Bakkus's  letters  as  Lackaday  has  kept  and  as  I  have 
read,  are  literary  gems  with  —  always  —  a  perverse 
and  wilful  flaw  .  .  .  like  the  man's  life. 

From  Paris,  after  this  particular  meeting  with 
Bakkus,  Andrew  once  more  goes  on  tour  with  Pre- 
pimpin.  But  a  Prepimpin  grown  old,  and,  though 
pathetically  eager,  already  past  effective  work.  Nine 
years  of  strenuous  toil  are  as  much  as  any  dog  can 
stand.  Rheumatism  twinged  the  hind  legs  of  Pre- 
pimpin. Desire  for  slumber  stupefied  his  sense  of 
duty.  He  could  no  longer  oatch  the  lighted  cigar 
and  swagger  off  with  it  in  his  mouth,  across  the 
stage. 

"And  yet,  I'm  sure,"  writes  Lackaday,  "that  every 
time  I  cut  his  business,  it  nearly  broke  his  heart. 
And  it  had  come  to  Prepimpin's  business  being  cut 
down  to  an  insignificant  minimum.  I  could,  of 
course,  have  got  another  dog.  But  it  would  have 
broken  his  heart  altogether.  And  one  doesn't  break 


108  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

the  hearts  of  creatures  like  Prepimpin.  I  managed 
to  arrange  the  performance,  at  last,  so  that  he  should 
think  he  was  doing  a  devil  of  a  lot.  ..." 

Then  the  end  came.  It  was  on  the  Bridge  of  Avi- 
gnon, which,  if  you  will  remember,  Lackaday  super- 
stitiously  regards  as  a  spot  fraught  with  his  destiny. 

Fate  had  not  taken  him  to  the  town  since  his  last 
disastrous  appearance.  No  one  recognized  in  the 
Petit  Patou  of  provincial  fame  the  lank  failure  of 
many  years  ago.  Besides,  this  time,  he  played  not 
at  the  wretched  music-hall  without  the  walls,  but  at 
the  splendid  Palace  of  Varieties  in  the  Boulevard 
de  la  Gare.  He  was  a  star  —  en  vedette,  and  he  had 
a  dressing-room  to  himself.  He  stayed  at  the  Hotel 
d'Europe,  the  famous  hostelry  by  the  great  entrance 
gates.  To  avoid  complication,  he  went  everywhere 
now  as  Monsieur  Patou.  Folks  passing  by  the  open 
courtyard  of  the  hotel  where  he  might  be  taking  the 
air,  pointed  him  out  to  one  another.  "  Le  voila  — 
Petit  Patou:' 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  his  week's  engagement  — 
once  more  in  summer  time.  He  lunched,  saw  to 
Prepimpin's  meal,  smoked  the  cheap  cigar  of  con- 
tent, and  then,  crossing  the  noisy  little  flagged  square, 
went  through  the  gates,  Prepimpin  at  his  heels,  and 
made  his  way  across  the  dusty  road  to  the  bridge. 
The  work-a-day  folk,  on  that  week-day  afternoon, 
had  all  returned  to  their  hives  in  the  town,  and  the 
pathways  of  the  bridge  contained  but  few  pedestrians. 

In  the  roadway,  too,  there  was  but  lazy  life,  an 
occasional  omnibus,  the  queer  old  diligence  of 
Provence  with  its  great  covered  hood  in  the  midst 
of  which  sat  the  driver  amid  a  cluster  of  peasants, 
hidden  like  the  queen  bee  by  the  swarm,  a  bullock 
cart  bringing  hay  into  the  city,  a  tradesman's  cart, 
a  lumbering  wine  waggon,  with  its  three  great  white 
horses_and  great  barrels.  Nothing  hurried  in  the 
hot  sunshine.  The  Rhone,  very  low,  flowed  slug- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  109 

gishly.  Only  now  and  then  did  a  screeching,  dust- 
whirling  projectile  of  a  motor-car  hurl  itself  across 
this  bridge  of  drowsy  leisure. 

Andrew  leaned  over  the  parapet,  finding  rest  in  a 
mild  melancholy,  his  thoughts  chiefly  occupied  with 
the  decay  of  Prepimpin  who  sat  by  his  heels  gazing 
at  the  roadway,  occupied  possibly  by  the  same  sere 
reflections.  Presently  the  flea-catching  antics  of  a 
ragged  mongrel  in  the  middle  of  the  roadway  dis- 
turbed Prepimpin's  sense  of  the  afternoon's  decorum. 
He  rose  and  with  stiff  dignity  stalked  towards  him. 
He  stood  nose  to  nose  with  the  mongrel,  his  tufted 
tail  in  straight  defiance  up  in  the  air. 

Then  suddenly  there  was  a  rush  and  a  roar  and  a 
yell  of  voices  —  and  the  scrunch  of  swiftly  applied 
brakes.  Andrew  turned  round  and  saw  a  great  tour- 
ing car  filled  with  men  and  women  —  and  the  men 
were  jumping  out.  And  he  saw  a  mongrel  dog  racing 
away  for  dear  life.  And  then  at  last  he  saw  a  black 
mass  stretched  upon  the  ground.  With  horror  in 
his  heart  he  rushed  and  threw  himself  down  by  the 
dog's  body.  He  was  dead.  He  had  solved  the  prob- 
lem—  solverat  ambulando.  Andrew  heard  English 
voices  around  him;  he  raised  a  ghastly  face. 

"You  brutes,  you  have  killed  my  dog." 

He  scarcely  heard  the  explanations,  the  apologies. 
The  dog  seeing  the  car  far  off,  had  cleared  himself. 
Then  without  warning  he  had  flung  himself  suicidally 
in  the  path  of  the  car.  What  could  they  do  now  by 
way  of  amends?  The  leader  of  the  little  company 
of  tourists,  a  clean-shaven,  florid  man,  obviously 
well  bred  and  greatly  distressed,  drew  a  card  from 
his  pocket-book. 

"I  am  staying  a  couple  of  days  at  the  Hotel 
Luxembourg  at  Nimes  —  I  know  that  nothing  can 
pay  for  a  dog  one  loves  —  but " 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Andrew  waving  aside  the 
card. 

"Can  we  take  the  dog  anywhere  for  you?" 


110  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"You're  very  kind,"  said  Andrew,  "but  the  kind- 
est thing  is  to  leave  me  alone." 

He  bent  down  again  and  took  Prepimpin  in  his 
arms  and  strode  with  him  through  the  group  of  mo- 
torists and  the  little  clamouring  crowd  tnat  had 
gathered  round.  One  of  the  former,  a  girl  in  a  blue 
motor  veil,  ran  after  him  and  touched  his  arm.  Her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  like  that.  Oh 
can't  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

t  Andrew  looked  at  her.  Through  all  his  stunning 
grief  he  had  a  dim  vision  of  the  Princesse  Lointaine. 
He  said  in  an  uncertain  voice: 

"You  have  given  me  your  very  sweet  sympathy. 
You  can't  do  more." 

She  made  a  little  helpless  gesture  and  turned  and 
joined  her  companions,  who  went  on  their  way  to 
Nimes.  Andrew  carried  the  bleeding  body  of  Pre- 
pimpin, and  there  was  that  in  his  face  which  forbade 
the  idle  to  trail  indiscreetly  about  his  path.  He  strode 
on,  staring  ahead,  and  did  not  notice  a  woman  by 
the  pylon  of  the  bridge  who,  as  he  passed,  gave  a 
bewildered  gasp,  and  after  a  few  undecided  moments, 
followed  him  at  a  distance.  He  went,  carrying  the 
dog,  up  the  dirty  river  bank  outside  the  walls,  where 
there  was  comparative  solitude,  and  sat  down  on  a 
stone  seat,  and  laid  Prepimpin  on  the  ground.  He 
broke  down  and  cried.  For  seven  years  the  dog's 
life  and  his  had  been  inextricably  interwoven  Not 
only  had  they  shared  bed  and  board  as  many  a  good 
man  and  dog  have  done,  but  they  had  shared  the 
serious  affairs  of  life,  its  triumphs,  its  disillusions. 
And  Prepimpin  was  all  that  he  had  to  love  in  the 
wide  world. 

"Pardon,  monsieur''  said  a  voice. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  the  woman  who  had  fol- 
lowed him.  She  was  dark,  of  the  loose  build  of  the 
woman  predisposed  to  stoutness  who  had  grown 
thin,  and  she  had  kind  eyes  in  which  pain  seemed 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  111 

to  hold  in  check  the  promise  of  laughter  and  only  an 
animal  wistfulness  lingered.  Her  lips  were  pinched 
and  her  face  was  thin  and  careworn.  And  yet  she 
was  young  —  obviously  under  thirty.  Her  move- 
ments retained  all  the  lissomeness  of  youth.  Al- 
though dressed  more  or  less  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  year,  she  looked  poor.  Yet  there  was  not  so 
much  of  threadbare  poverty  in  her  attire,  as  lack  of 
interest  —  or  pathetic  incongruity;  the  coat  and 
skirt  too  heavy  for  the  sultry  day;  the  cheap  straw 
hat  trimmed  with  uncared  for  roses;  the  soiled  white 
gloves  with  an  unmended  finger  tip. 

"Madame?"  said  he. 

And  as  he  saw  it,  the  woman's  face  and  form  be- 
came vaguely  familiar.  He  had  seen  her  some- 
where. But  in  the 'last  few  years  he  had  seen  thou- 
sands of  women. 

"You  have  had  a  great  misfortune,  monsieur?" 

"That  is  true,  madame." 

She  sat  on  the  bench  beside  him. 

"  Vous  pleurez.  You  must  have  loved  him  very 
much." 

It  was  not  a  stranger  speaking  to  him.  Other- 
wise, he  would  have  risen  and,  as  politely  as  anguished 
nerves  allowed,  would  have  told  her  to  go  to  the 
devil.  She  made  no  intrusion  on  his  grief.  Her 
voice  fell  with  familiar  comfort  on  his  ear.  He  was 
vaguely  conscious  of  her  right  to  offer  sympathy. 
He  regarded  her,  grateful  but  perplexed. 

"You  don't  recognize  me?  Enfin,  why  should 
you?"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "We  only  met 
for  a  few  hours  many  years  ago  —  here  in  Avignon 
—  but  we  were  good  friends." 

Then  Andrew  drew  a  deep  breath  and  turned 
swiftly  round  on  the  bench  and  shot  out  both  his 
hands. 

"MonDieu!    Elodie!" 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "I'm  glad  you  remember." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THEY  sat  awhile  and  talked  of  the  tragedy,  the 
dead  Prepimpin,  at  once  a  link  and  a  barrier 
between  them,  lying  at  their  feet.    Her  ready 
sympathy  brought  her  near;   but  while  the  dog  lay 
there,  mangled  and  bloody,  he  could  think  of  nothing 
else.    It  was  Elodie  who  suggested  immediate  and 
decent  burial.    Why  should  he  not  go  to  the  hotel 
for  a  workman  and  a  spade? 

He  smiled.  "You  always  seem  to  come  to  my 
help  in  time  of  trouble:  But  while  I  am  absent,  what 
will  happen  to  him?" 

"I  will  guard  him,  my  friend,"  said  Elodie. 
*He  marched  off.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came  back 
accompanied  by  one  of  the  hotel  baggage  porters. 
The  grave,  on  the  waste  land  by  the  Rhone,  was 
quickly  dug,  and  Prepimpin  covered  over  for  ever 
with  the  kindly  earth.  As  soon  as  the  body  was 
hidden,  Andrew  turned  away,  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "let  us  sit  somewhere  else 
and  you  shall  tell  me  about  yourself.  I  have  been 
selfish." 

The  tale  she  had  to  tell  was  very  old  and  very 
sad.  She  did  not  begin  it,  however,  until,  drawing 
off  her  old  gloves,  for  coolness'  sake,  she  disclosed  a 
wedding  ring  on  her  finger.  His  eye  caught  it  at  once. 

"Why,  you  are  married." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  am  married." 

"You  don't  speak  in  the  tone  of  a  happy  woman." 

She  shrugged  hopeless  shoulders.  "A  woman  isn't 
happy  with  a  goujat  for  a  husband." 

Now  a  goujat  is  a  word  for  which  scoundrel,  and 
miscreant,  are  but  weak  translations.  It  denotes 
lowest  depths  of  infamy. 

112 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  113 

Andrew  frowned  terribly.     "He  ill-treats  you?" 

"He  did.  But  that  is  past.  Fortunately  I  am 
alone.  He  has  deserted  me." 

"Children?" 

"Thank  God,  no,"  replied  Elodie. 

And  then  it  all  came  out  in  the  unrestrained  tor- 
rent of  the  south.  She  had  been  an  honest  girl,  in 
spite  of  a  thousand  temptations.  When  Andre  met 
her,  she  was  as  pure  as  any  young  girl  in  a  convent. 
It  wasn't  that  she  was  ignorant.  Oh  no.  The  girl 
who  had  gone  through  the  workrooms  of  Marseilles 
and  the  music-halls  of  France  and  could  retain  vir- 
ginal innocence  would  be  either  a  Blessed  Saint  or 
an  idiot.  It  was  knowledge  that  had  kept  her 
straight;  knowledge  and  pride.  She  was  not  for 
sale.  Grand  Dieu,  no!  And  love?  If  a  man's  love 
fell  short  of  the  desire  for  marriage,  well,  it  didn't 
amount  to  a  row  of  pins.  Besides,  even  where  there 
could  be  a  love  quite  true  without  the  possibility  of 
marriage,  she  had  seen  enough  of  the  world  to  know 
the  unhappinesses  that  could  happen  to  women.  No. 
Andre  must  not  think  she  was  cold  or  prudish.  She 
had  set  out  to  be  merely  reasonable.  To  Andre  the 
girl's  apology  for  preserving  her  chastity  seemed  per- 
fectly natural.  In  her  world  it  was  somewhat  of  an 
eccentric  feat. 

"Et  puts,  enfin"  And  then,  at  last,  came  the  con- 
quering male,  a  singer  in  a  light  opera  touring  com- 
pany in  the  chorus  of  which  she  was  engaged.  He 
was  young,  handsome  —  played  secondary  parts; 
one  of  the  great  ones,  in  fact,  in  her  limited  theatrical 
hierarchy.  He  fell  in  love  with  her.  She,  flattered, 
responded.  Of  course,  he  suggested  setting  up  house 
together,  then  and  there.  But  she  had  her  aforesaid 
little  principles.  His  infatuation,  however,  was  such 
that  he  consented  to  run  the  terrific  gauntlet  of 
French  matrimonial  procedure.  Why  people  in 
France  go  to  the  nerve-racking  trouble  of  getting 
married  Heaven  only  knows.  Camels  can  gallop 


114  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

much  more  easily  through  needles'  eyes.  Anybody 
can  be  born  in  France,  anybody  can  die;  against 
these  phenomena  the  form-multiplying  and  ream- 
writing  Ad-min-is-tra-tion  is  powerless.  But  when 
you  come  to  the  intermediate  business  of  world 
population,  then  bureaucracy  steps  in  and  plays  the 
very  devil.  Elodie  and  Raoul  Marescaux  desired  to 
be  married.  In  England  they  would  have  got  a 
special  license,  or  gone  to  a  registry  office,  and  the 
thing  would  have  been  over.  But  in  France,  Mon- 
sieur and  Madame  Marescaux,  and  Madame  Figasso, 
and  the  huissier  Boudin,  who  insisted  on  coming 
forward  although  he  was  not  legally  united  to  Ma- 
dame, and  lawyers  representing  each  family,  were 
set  all  agog,  and  there  were  meetings  and  quarrels, 
and  delays  —  Elodie  had  not  a  cent  to  her  dowry 
—  which  of  course  was  the  stumbling-block  —  with 
the  final  result  that  nothing  was  done  which  might 
not  have  been  done  at  once,  namely,  that  the  pair 
were  doubly  married  —  once  by  Monsieur  le  Maire 
and  then  by  Monsieur  le  Cure. 

For  a  few  months  she  was  happy.  Then  the  hand- 
some Raoul  became  enamoured  of  a  fresh  face.  Then 
Elodie  fell  ill,  oh,  so  ill,  they  thought  she  was  going 
to  die.  And  during  her  illness  and  slow  recovery 
Raoul  became  enamoured  of  every  fresh  face  he  saw. 
A  procession.  If  it  had  been  one,  said  Elodie  philo- 
sophically, she  could  perhaps  have  arranged  matters. 
But  they  had  been  endless.  And  what  little  beauty 
she  had  her  illness  had  taken  away,  so  her  only 
weapon  was  gone;  and  Raoul  jeered  at  her  and  openly 
flaunted  his  infidelities  in  her  presence.  When  she 
used  beyond  a  certain  point  the  ready  tongue  with 
which  Providence  had  endowed  her,  she  was  soundly 
beaten.  "Le  goujat!"  cried  Andrew.  Ah!  It  was 
a  life  of  hell.  But  they  had  kept  nominally  together, 
in  the  same  companies,  she  singing  in  the  chorus,  he 
playing  his  second  roles.  And  then  there  came  a  day 
when  he  obtained  an  engagement  in  the  Opera  at 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  115 

Buenos  Ayres.  She  was  to  accompany  him.  Her 
berth  was  booked,  her  luggage  packed.  He  said  to 
her,  "  I  have  to  go  away  for  a  day  or  two  on  business. 
Meet  me  at  the  boat  train  for  Havre  on  Wednesday." 
She  went  to  the  Gare  St.  Lazare  on  Wednesday  to 
find  that  the  boat  train  had  gone  on  Tuesday.  Un 
sale  tour  —  eh?  Did  ever  anyone  hear  of  such  a 
dirty  trick?  And  later  she  learned  that  her  berth 
was  occupied  by  a  little  modiste  of  the  Place  de  la 
Madeleine  with  whom  he  had  run  away. 

That  was  two  years  ago.  Since  then  she  had  not 
heard  of  him;  and  she  wished  never  to  hear  of  him 
again. 

"And  you  have  been  supporting  yourself  all  the 
time,  on  the  stage?" 

"Yes,  I  have  lived.  But  it  has  been  hard.  My  ill- 
ness affected  my  voice.  No  one  wants  me  very  much. 
But  still"  —  she  smiled  wanly  —  "I  can  manage. 
And  now,  you.  I  saw  you  yesterday  at  the  Palace. 
They  know  me  there  and  give  me  my  entree.  You 
have  had  a  beau  succes.  You  are  famous.  I  am  so 
glad." 

Modestly  he  depreciated  the  fame,  but  acknowl- 
edged the  success  which  was  due  to  her  encourage- 
ment. He  told  her  of  the  racehorse  Elodie  and  his 
lucky  inspiration.  For  the  first  time  she  laughed  and 
clapped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  I  am  flattered!  Yes,  and  greatly  touched. 
Now  I  know  that  you  have  remembered  me.  But  if 
the  horse  had  lost  wouldn't  you  have  pested  against 
me?  Say?" 

Andrew  replied  soberly:  "I  could  not  possibly 
have  lost.  I  knew  it  would  win,  just  as  I  know  that 
five  minutes  hence  the  sun  will  continue  to  shine. 
I  had  faith  in  your  star,  Elodie."  i 

"  My  star  —  it's  not  worth  very  much,  my  star." 

"It  has  been  to  me,"  said  Andrew. 

They  talked  on.  By  dint  of  questioning  she 
learned  most  of  his  not  over-eventful  history.  He 


116  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

told  her  of  Horatio  Bakkus,  and  of  the  season  on  the 
sands,  when  first  he  realized  her  original  idea  of 
exploiting  his  figure;  of  Prepimpin  in  his  prime  and 
their  wanderings  about  Europe.  And  now  alas! 
there  was  no  longer  a  Prepimpin. 

"But  how  will  you  give  the  performance  this 
evening  without  him?"  she  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had  not  given  a 
thought  to  that  yet.  It  was  the  loss  of  his  friend 
that  wrung  his  heart. 

"You  are  so  gentle  and  sympathetic.  Why  is  it 
that  no  woman  has  loved  you?" 

"Perhaps  because  I've  not  found  a  woman  I  could 
love,"  said  he. 

She  did  not  pursue  the  subject,  but  sighed  and 
looked  somewhat  drearily  in  front  of  her.  It  was 
then  that  he  became  aware  of  the  cruel  treatment 
that  the  years  had  inflicted  on  her  youth.  He  knew 
that  she  was  under  thirty,  yet  she  looked  older.  The 
colour  had  gone  from  her  olive  skin,  leaving  it  sal- 
low; her  cheeks  were  drawn;  haggard  lines  appeared 
beneath  her  eyes;  her  cheekbones  and  chin  were 
prominent.  It  struck  him  that  she  might  be  fight- 
ing a  hard  battle  against  poverty.  She  looked  under- 
fed. He  asked  her. 

"Have  you  an  engagement  here  in  Avignon?" 

She  shook  her  head.     No,  she  was  resting. 

"How  long  have  you  been  out?" 

She  couldn't  tell.  Many  weeks.  And  prospects 
for  the  immediate  future?  The  Tournee  Tardieu 
was  coming  next  Monday  to  Avignon.  She  knew  the 
manager.  Possibly  he  would  give  her  a  short  en- 
gagement. 

" And  if  he  doesn't?" 

"I  will  arrange,"  said  Elodie  with  a  show  of 
bravery. 

Andrew  frowned  again,  and  his  mild  blue  eyes  nar- 
rowed keenly.  He  stretched  out  his  arm  and  put 
his  delicate  fingers  on  her  hand. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  117 

"You  have  given  me  your  help  and  sympathy. 
Do  you  refuse  mine?  Why  does  your  pride  forbid 
you  to  tell  me  that  you  are  in  great  distress?" 

"What  would  be  the  good?"  she  replied  with 
averted  face.  "How  could  you  help  me?  Money? 
Oh  no.  I  would  sooner  fling  myself  in  the  river." 

' '  You're  talking  foolishness, ' '  said  he.  ' '  You  know 
that  you  are  in  debt  for  your  little  room,  and  that 
the  proprietaire  won't  let  you  stay  much  longer.  You 
know  that  you  have  not  sufficient  food.  You  know 
that  you  have  had  nothing  to-day  but  a  bit  of 
bread  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  if  you  have  had  that. 
Confess!" 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  worked  pathetically.  In 
spite  of  heroic  effort,  a  sob  came  into  her  throat  and 
tears  into  her  eyes.  Then  she  broke  down  and  wept 
wretchedly. 

Yes,  it  was  true.  She  had  but  a  few  sous  in  the 
world.  No  other  clothes  but  those  she  wore.  Oh, 
she  was  ashamed,  ashamed  that  he  should  guess.  If 
she  had  not  been  weak,  he  would  have  gone  away 
and  never  have  known.  And  so  on,  and  so  forth. 
The  situation  was  plain  as  day  to  Andrew.  Elodie, 
if  not  his  guardian  angel,  at  any  rate  his  mascot,  was 
down  and  out.  While  she  was  crying,  he  slipped, 
unperceived,  a  hundred-franc  note  into  the  side 
pocket  of  her  jacket.  At  all  events  she  should  have 
a  roof  over  her  head  and  food  to  eat  for  the  next 
few  days,  until  he  could  devise  some  plan  for  her 
future  welfare.  Her  future  welfare!  For  all  his 
generous  impulses,  it  gave  him  cause  for  cold  thought. 
How  the  deuce  could  a  wandering,  even  though  suc- 
cessful, young  mountebank  assure  the  future  of  a 
forlorn  and  untalented  young  woman? 

"  Voyons,  chere  a/me,"  said  he  comfortingly,  "all 
is  not  yet  lost.  If  the  theatre  does  not  give  you  a 
livelihood,  we  might  try  something  else.  I  have  my 
little  savings.  I  could  easily  lend  you  enough  to 
buy  a  petit  commerce,  a  little  business.  You  could 


118  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

repay  me,  bit  by  bit,  at  your  convenience.  Tiens! 
Didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  apprenticed  to  a 
dressmaker?" 

But  Elodie  was  hopeless.  All  that  she  had  learned 
as  a  child  she  had  forgotten.  She  was  fit  for  nothing 
but  posturing  on  the  stage.  If  Andre  could  get  her 
a  good  engagement,  that  was  all  the  aid  she  would 
accept. 

Andrew  looked  at  his  watch.  The  afternoon  had 
sped  with  magical  rapidity.  He  reflected  that  not 
only  must  he  dine,  but  he  must  think  over  and  re- 
hearse the  evening's  performance  with  Prepimpin's 
part  cut  out.  He  dared  not  improvise  before  the 
public.  He  rose  with  the  apologetic  explanation  — 

"My  little  Elodie,"  said  he,  as  they  walked  along 
the  battlemented  city  walls  towards  the  great  gate, 
"have  courage.  Come  to  the  Palace  to-night.  I 
will  arrange  that  you  shall  have  a  loge.  You  only 
have  to  ask  for  it.  And  after  my  turn,  you  shall 
meet  me,  as  long  ago,  at  the  Cafe  des  Negotiants, 
and  we  shall  sup  together  and  talk  of  your  affairs." 

She  meekly  consented.  And  when  they  parted  at 
the  entrance  to  the  Hotel  d 'Europe,  he  said: 

"If  I  do  not  ask  you  to  dine,  it  is  because  I  have 
to  think  and  work.  You  understand?  But  in  your 
pocket  you  will  find  de  quoi  bien  diner.  Au  revoir, 
ckere  amie." 

He  put  out  his  hand.  She  held  it,  while  her  eyes, 
tragically  large  and  dark,  searched  his  with  painful 
intensity. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "is  it  better  that  I  should 
come  and  see  you  to-night  or  that  I  should  throw 
myself  over  the  bridge  into  the  Rhone?" 

"  If  you  meet  me  to-night,"  said  Andrew,  "you  will 
still  be  alive,  which,  after  all,  is  a  very  good  thing." 

"  Je  viendrai,"  said  Elodie.  , 

"The  devil!"  said  Andrew,  entering  the  courtyard 
of  the  hotel,  and  wiping  a  perspiring  brow,  "here  am 
I  faced  with  a  pretty  responsibility!" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  119 

Experience  enabled  him  to  give  a  satisfactory  per- 
formance; and  his  manager  prepared  his  path  by 
announcing  the  unhappy  end  of  Prepimpin  and 
craving  the  indulgence  01  the  audience.  But  Andrew 
passed  a  heartbroken  hour  at  the  music-hall.  In  his 
dressing-room  were  neatly  stored  the  dog's  ward- 
robe and  properties  —  the  gay  ribbons,  the  harness, 
the  little  yellow  silk  hat  which  he  wore  with  such  a 
swaggering  air,  the  little  basket  carried  over  his  front 
paw  into  which  he  would  sweep  various  objects 
when  his  master's  back  was  turned,  the  drinking 
dish  labelled  "Dog"  .  .  .  He  suffered  almost  a 
human  bereavement.  And  then,  the  audience,  for 
this  night,  was  kind.  But,  as  conscientious  artist, 
he  was  sensitively  aware  of  makeshift.  A  great  ele- 
ment of  his  success  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had  trained 
the  dog  to  appear  the  more  clever  of  the  two,  to 
score  off  his  pretended  clumsiness  and  to  complete 
his  tricks.  For  years  he  had  left  uncultivated  the 
art  of  being  funny  by  himself.  Without  Prepimpin 
he  felt  lost,  like  a  man  in  a  sculling  race  with  only 
one  oar.  He  took  off  his  make-up  and  dressed,  a 
very  much  worried  man.  Of  course  he  could  obtain 
another  trained  dog  without  much  difficulty,  and  the 
special  training  would  not  take  long;  but  he  would 
have  to  love  the  animal  in  order  to  establish  that 
perfect  partnership  which  was  essential  to  his  per- 
formance. And  how  could  he  love  any  other  dog 
than  Prepimpin?  He  felt  that  he  would  hate  the 
well-meaning  but  pretentious  hound.  He  went  out 
filled  with  anxieties  and  repugnances. 

Elodie  was  waiting  for  him  by  the  stage  door.  She 
said: 

"You  got  out  of  the  difficulty  marvellously." 

"  But  it  was  nothing  like  the  performance  you  saw 
yesterday." 

"Ah  non,"  she  replied  frankly. 

"  Vw7a,"  said  he,  dejectedly. 

They  walked,  almost  in  silence,  along  the  Avenue 


120  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

de  la  Gare,  thronged,  as  it  was  at  the  time  of  their 
first  meeting,  with  the  good  citizens  of  Avignon, 
taking  the  air  of  the  sultry  summer  evening.  She 
told  him  afterwards  that  she  felt  absurdly  small  and 
insignificant  trotting  by  the  side  of  his  gaunt  height, 
a  feeling  which  she  had  not  experienced  years  before 
when  their  relative  positions  were  reversed.  But  now 
she  regarded  him  as  a  kind  of  stricken  god;  and 
womanlike  she  was  conscious  of  haggard  face  and 
shrunken  bosom,  whereas  before,  she  had  stepped 
beside  him  proud  of  the  ripe  fulness  of  her  youth. 

Whither  the  commonplace  adventure  was  leading 
them  neither  knew.  For  his  part  pity  compelled 
superstitious  sentiment  to  the  payment,  in  some 
vague  manner,  of  a  long-standing  obligation.  She 
had  also  given  him  very  rare  sympathy  that  after- 
noon, and  he  was  grateful.  But  things  ended  there, 
in  a  sort  of  blind  alley. 

For  her  part,  she  let  herself  go  with  the  current 
of  destiny  into  which,  by  strange  hazard,  she  had 
drifted.  She  had  the  humility  which  is  the  fiercest 
form  of  pride.  Although  she  clung  desperately  to 
him,  as  to  the  spar  that  alone  could  save  her  from 
drowning,  although  the  feminine  within  her  was 
drawn  to  his  kind  and  simple  manliness,  and  although 
her  heart  was  touched  by  his  grief  at  the  loss  of  the 
dog,  yet  never  for  a  moment  did  she  count  upon  the 
ordinary  romantic  denouement  of  such  a  situation. 
The  idea  came  involuntarily  into  her  mind.  Into 
the  mind  of  what  woman  of  her  upbringing  would 
not  the  idea  come?  But  she  banished  it  savagely. 
Who  was  she,  waste  rag  of  a  woman,  to  attract  a 
man?  And  even  had  she  retained  the  vivid  beauty 
and  plenitude  of  her  maidenhood,  it  would  have  been 
just  the  same.  Elodie  Figasso  had  never  sold  her- 
self. No.  All  that  side  of  things  was  out  of  the 
question.  She  wished,  however,  that  he  was  less  of 
an  enigmatic,  though  kindly,  sphinx. 

Over  their  modest  supper  of  sandwiches  and  Cotes 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  121 

du  Rhone  wine,  in  an  inside  corner  of  the  Cafe  des 
Negociants  —  it  was  all  the  cafe  could  offer,  and  be- 
sides she  swore  to  a  plentiful  dinner  —  they  discussed 
their  respective  forlorn  positions.  Adroitly  she 
tacked  away  from  her  own  concerns  towards  his 
particular  dilemma.  If  he  shrank  from  training 
another  dog  and  yet  distrusted  a  solo  performance, 
what  was  he  going  to  do?  Take  a  partner  like  his 
friend  —  she  forgot  the  name  —  yes,  Bakkus,  on 
whom  perhaps  he  couldn't  rely,  and  who  naturally 
would  demand  half  his  salary? 

"Never  again,"  Andrew  declared,  feeling  better 
after  a  draught  of  old  Hermitage.  "The  only  thing 
I  can  think  of  is  to  engage  a  competent  assistant." 

Then  Elodie's  swift  brain  conceived  a  daring  idea. 

"You  would  have  to  train  the  assistant." 

"Of  course.  But,"  he  added  in  a  dismal  tone, 
"most  of  the  assistants  I  have  seen  are  abysmally 
stupid.  They  are  dummies.  They  give  nothing  of 
themselves,  for  the  performer  to  act  up  to." 

"In  fact,"  said  Elodie,  trying  hard  to  steady  her 
voice,  "you  want  someone  entirely  in  sympathy  with 
you,  who  can  meet  you  half-way  —  like  Prepimpin." 

"Precisely,"  said  Andrew.  "But  where  can  I  find 
a  human  Prepimpin?" 

She  abandoned  knife  and  fork  and,  with  both  arms 
resting  on  the  table,  looked  across  at  him,  and  it 
suddenly  struck  him  that  her  great  dark  eyes,  in- 
telligent and  submissive,  were  very  much  like  the 
eyes  of  Prepimpin.  And  so,  womanlike,  she  conveyed 
the  Idea  from  her  brain  to  his. 

He  said  very  thoughtfully,  "I  wonder " 

"What?" 

"What  have  you  done  on  the  stage?  What  can 
you  do?  Tell  me.  Unfortunately  I  have  never  seen 

you." 

She  could  sing  —  not  well  now,  because  her  voice 
had  suffered  —  but  still  she  sang  true.  She  had  a 
musical  ear.  She  could  accompany  anyone  on  the 


122  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

piano,  pas  trop  mal.  She  could  dance.  Oh,  to  that 
she  owed  her  first  engagement.  She  had  also  learned 
to  play  the  castagnettes  and  the  tambourine,  a  I'Es- 
pagnoie.  And  she  was  accustomed  to  discipline.  .  .  . 
As  she  proceeded  with  the  unexciting  catalogue  of 
her  accomplishments  she  lost  self-control,  and  her  eyes 
burned  and  her  lips  quivered  and  her  voice  shook 
in  unison  with  the  beatings  of  a  desperately  anxious 
heart.  Our  Andrew,  although  an  artist  dead  set  on 
perfection  and  a  shrewd  man  of  business,  was  young, 
pitiful  and  generous.  The  pleading  dog's  look  in 
Elodie's  eyes  was  too  much  for  him.  He  felt  power- 
less to  resist.  His  brain  worked  swiftly,  devising  all 
kinds  of  artistic  possibilities.  Besides,  was  not  Fate 
accomplishing  itself  by  presenting  this  solution  of 
both  tneir  difficulties? 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  would  care  to  try  the  ex- 
periment?" 

With  an  effort  of  feminine  duplicity  she  put  on  a 
puzzled  and  ingenuous  expression. 

"What  experiment?" 

He  was  somewhat  taken  aback:  surely  he  must 
have  misinterpreted  her  pleading.  From  the  dis- 
penser of  fortune,  he  became  the  seeker  of  favours. 

"I  know  it's  not  much  of  a  position  to  offer  you," 
said  he,  almost  apologetically,  "but  if  you  care  to 
accept  it " 

"  Of  your  assistant?  "  she  asked,  as  though  the  idea 
had  never  entered  her  head. 

"  Why,  yes.  If  you  will  consent  to  a  month  of  very 
hard  work.  You  would  have  to  learn  a  little  ele- 
mentary juggling.  You  would  have  to  give  me  in- 
stantaneous replies  in  act  and  speech.  But  if  you 
would  give  yourself  up  to  me  I  could  teach  you." 

"But,  mon  pauvre  Andre,"  she  said,  with  an  as- 
tonished air,  "this  is  the  last  thing  I  ever  dreamed 
of.  I  am  so  ignorant.  I  should  put  you  to  shame." 

"Oh  no,  you  wouldn't,"  said  he,  confidently.  "I 
know  my  business.  Wait.  Les  affaires  sont  les 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  123 

affaires.  I  should  have  to  give  you  a  little  contract. 
Let  us  see.  For  the  remainder  of  my  tour  —  ten 
weeks  —  ten  francs  a  day  with  hotel  en  pension  and 
railway  fares." 

To  Elodie,  independent  waif  in  theatre-land,  this 
was  wealth  beyond  her  dreams.  She  stretched  both 
hands  across  the  table. 

"Do  you  mean  that?  It  is  true?  And,  if  I  please 
you,  you  will  keep  me  always?" 

"Why  not?"  said  Andrew.  "And,  if  you  show 
talent,  we  may  come  to  a  better  arrangement  for 
the  next  tour." 

"And  if  I  show  no  talent  at  all?" 

He  made  a  deprecating  gesture  and  grinned  in  his 
charming  way.  But  Eloch'e's  intuition  taught  her 
that  there  was  the  stern  purpose  of  a  man  behind 
the  grin.  She  had  imposed  her  helplessness  on  him 
this  once.  But  if  she  failed  him  she  would  not  have, 
professionally,  a  second  chance. 

"I  insist  on  your  having  talent,"  said  Andrew. 

The  walk  home  to  her  dingy  lodgings  repeated  it- 
self. She  felt  very  humble  yet  triumphant.  More 
than  ever  did  she  regard  him  as  a  god  who  had  raised 
her,  by  a  touch,  from  despair  and  starvation  to  hope 
and  plenty,  and  in  her  revulsion  of  gratitude  she 
could  have  taken  both  his  hands  and  passionately 
kissed  them.  And  yet  she  was  proudly  conscious 
of  something  within  her,  unconquerably  feminine, 
which  had  touched  his  godship  and  wrought  the 
miracle. 

They  halted  in  the  narrow,  squalid  street,  before 
the  dark  entry  of  the  house  where  she  lodged.  An- 
drew eyed  the  poverty-stricken  hole  in  disgust. 
Obviously  she  had  touched  the  depths. 

"To-morrow  you  must  move,"  said  he.  "I  shall 
arrange  a  room  for  you  at  the  hotel.  We  shall  have 
much  business  to  discuss.  Can  you  be  there  at  ten 
o'clock?" 


124  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"Whatever  you  say  shall  be  done,"  she  replied 
humbly. 

He  put  out  his  hand. 

"Good-night,  Elodie.  Have  courage  and  all  will 
be  well." 

She  murmured  some  thanks  with  a  sob  in  her  voice 
and,  turning  swiftly,  disappeared  up  the  evil-smelling 
stone  stairs.  The  idea  of  kissing  her  did  not  occur 
to  him  until  he  found  himself  alone  and  remembered 
the  pretty  idyll  of  their  leave-taking  long  ago.  He 
laughed,  none  too  gaily.  Between  boy  and  girl  and 
man  and  woman  there  was  a  vast  difference. 


CHAPTER  X 

THAT  was  the  beginning  of  the  combination 
known  a  little  while  afterwards  as  Les  Petit 
Patou.  Elodie,  receptive,  imitative,  histrionic, 
showed  herself  from  the  start  an  apt  pupil.  To 
natural  talent  she  added  the  desire,  born  of  infinite 
gratitude,  to  please  her  benefactor.  She  possessed 
the  rare  faculty  of  perfect  surrender.  Andrew  mar- 
velled. Had  he  hypnotized  her  she  could  not  have 
more  completely  executed  his  will.  And  yet  she  was 
no  automaton.  She  was  artist  enough  to  divine 
when  her  personality  should  be  effaced  and  when  it 
should  count.  She  spoke  her  patter  with  intelligent 
point.  She  learned,  thanks  to  Andrew's  professional 
patience,  and  her  own  vehement  will,  a  few  ele- 
mentary juggling  tricks.  Andrew  repeated  the 
famous  Prepimpin  cigar-act.  Open-mouthed,  Elodie 
followed  his  manipulations.  When  he  threw  away 
the  cigar  it  seemed  to  enter  her  mouth  quite  natur- 
ally, against  her  will.  She  removed  it  with  an  expres- 
sion ;of  disgust  and  hurled  it  at  Andrew,  who  caught 
it  between  his  lips,  smoked  it  for  a  second  or  two  and 
grinned  his  thanks.  With  a  polite  gesture  he  threw 
it,  as  the  audience  thought,  back  to  her;  but  by  a 
sleight-of-hand  trick  the  cigar  vanished  and  she 
caught,  to  her  delighted  astonishment,  a  pearl  neck- 
lace, which,  as  she  clasped  it  round  her  neck,  van- 
ished likewise.  After  which  he  overwhelmed  her  with 
disappearing  jewels.  At  once  it  became  a  popular 
item  in  their  entertainment. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  months  he  swore  she  was 
worth  a  hundred  Prepimpins.  He  could  teach  her 
anything.  By  the  end  of  the  year  he  evolved  the 
grotesque  performance  that  made  Les  Petit  Patou 

125 


126  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

famous  in  provincial  France,  brought  them  for  a 
season  to  Paris  at  the  Cirque  Medrano,  to  London 
(for  a  week)  at  the  Hippodrome,  to  the  principal 
cities  of  Italy,  and  doubled  and  trebled  the  salary 
which  he  enjoyed  as  Petit  Patou  all  alone  with  the 
dog. 

Meanwhile  it  is  important  to  note  a  very  swift 
physical  change  in  Elodie.  When  a  young  woman, 
born  to  plumpness,  is  reduced  by  misery  to  skin  and 
bone,  a  short  term  of  succulent  nourishment  and 
absence  of  worry,  will  suffice  to  restore  her  to  a 
natural  condition.  She  had  no  beauty,  save  that  of 
her  dark  and  luminous  eyes  and  splendid  teeth.  Her 
features  were  coarse  and  irregular.  Her  uncared  for 
skin  gave  signs  of  future  puffiness.  But  still  —  after 
two  or  three  happy  months,  she  more  or  less  regained 
the  common  attractiveness  and  the  audacious  self- 
confidence  of  the  Marseilles  gamine  who  had  asked 
him  to  kiss  her  long  ago. 

Thus,  imperceptibly,  she  became  less  an  assistant 
than  a  partner,  less  a  paid  servant  on  the  stage  than 
a  helpmeet  in  his  daily  life.  Looking  at  the  tradi- 
tions of  their  environment  and  at  the  enforced  in- 
timacy of  their  vagabondage,  one  sees  the  inevita- 
bility of  this  linking  of  their  fortunes.  That  there 
was  any  furious  love  about  the  affair  I  have  very 
grave  doubts.  Andrew  in  his  secret  soul  still  han- 
kered after  the  Far-away  Princess,  and  Elodie  had 
spent  most  of  her  passionate  illusions  on  the  un- 
speakable Raoul.  But  they  had  a  very  fair  basis  of 
mutual  affection  to  build  upon.  Philosophers  will 
tell  you  that  such  is  the  basis  of  most  happy  mar- 
riages. You  can  believe  them  or  not,  as  you  please. 
I  am  in  no  position  to  dogmatise.  ...  At  any  rate 
Les  Petit  Patou  started  off  happily.  If  Elodie  was 
not  the  perfect  housewife,  you  must  remember  her 
upbringing  and  her  devil-may-care  kind  of  theatrical 
existence.  Andrew  knew  that  hers  were  not  the 
habits  of  the  Far-away  One,  who  like  himself  would 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  127 

be  a  tidy  soul,  bringing  into  commonplace  tidiness 
an  exquisitely  harmonious  sense  of  order;  but  the 
Far-away  One  was  a  mythical  being  endowed  with 
qualities  which  it  would  be  absurd  to  look  for  in 
Elodie.  Besides,  their  year  being  mainly  spent  in 
hotels,  she  had  little  opportunity  of  cultivating  house- 
wifely qualities.  If  she  neglected  the  nice  conduct 
of  his  underlinen  after  the  first  few  months  of  their 
partnership,  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  blame 
her.  Professional  work  was  tiring.  Her  own  clothes 
needed  her  attention.  But  still,  the  transient  com- 
fort had  been  very  agreeable.  ...  In  Paris,  too,  at 
first  she  had  played  at  house-keeping  in  the  apart- 
ment of  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis.  But  Elodie  did 
not  understand  the  bonne,  and  the  bonne  refused  to 
understand  Elodie  in  the  matter  of  catering,  and  they 
emphasized  their  mutual  misunderstanding  with  the 
unrestrained  speech  of  children  of  the  people.  Once 
or  twice  Andrew  went  hungry.  In  his  sober  and  dig- 
nified way  he  drew  Elodie's  attention  to  his  unusual 
condition.  It  led  to  their  first  quarrel.  After  that 
they  ate,  very  comfortably,  at  a  little  restaurant 
round  the  corner. 

It  was  not  the  home  life  of  which  Andrew  had 
dreamed  —  not  even  the  reincarnation  of  Madame 
Flint  sitting  by  the  round  table  darning  socks  by  the 
light  of  the  shaded  lamp.  Elodie  loathed  domestic 
ideals. 

"Mon  vieux"  she  would  declare,  "I  had  enough 
sewing  in  my  young  days.  My  idea  of  happiness 
would  be  a  world  without  needles  and  thread. ' 

He  noted  in  her,  too,  a  curious  want  of  house- 
pride.  Dust  gave  her  no  great  concern.  She  rather 
loved  a  litter  of  periodicals,  chiff 6ns,  broken  packets 
of  cigarettes,  tobacco  and  half-eaten  fruit  on  the 
tables.  A  picture  askew  never  attracted  her  atten- 
tion. To  remain  in  the  house,  dressed  in  her  out-of- 
door  clothes,  seemed  to  her  vain  extravagance  and 
discomfort.  A  wrapper  and  slippers,  the  more  soiled 


128  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

and  shapeless  the  better,  were  the  only  indoor  wear. 
Andrew  deplored  her  lack  of  literary  interest.  She 
would  read  the  feuilletons  of  the  Petit  Journal  and 
the  Matin  in  a  desultory  fashion;  but  she  could 
not  concentrate  her  mind  on  the  continuous  perusal 
of  a  novel.  She  spent  hours  over  a  pack  of  greasy 
cards,  telling  her  fortune  by  intricate  methods.  The 
same  with  music;  though  in  this  case  she  had  a 
love  for  it  in  the  open  air  when  a  band  was  playing, 
and  was  possessed  of  a  natural  ear,  and  could  read 
easy  pieces  and  accompaniments  at  sight  with  some 
facility.  But  she  would  never  try  to  learn  anything 
difficult;  would  never  do  more  than  strum  a  popular 
air  or  two  until  swift  boredom  paralysed  her  nerves. 

Yet,  for  all  her  domestic  slatternness,  the  moment 
she  emerged  from  private  into  professional  life,  her 
phlegmatic  indolence  was  transformed  into  quick 
energy.  No  rehearsal  wearied  her.  Into  every  per- 
formance she  concentrated  the  whole  of  her  being. 
If  it  were  a  question  of  mastering  a  grotesque  ac- 
companiment to  a  new  air  on  Andrew's  one-string 
fiddle,  she  would  slave  for  hours  until  it  was  perfect. 
She  kept  her  stage  costume  in  scrupulous  repair. 
Her  make-up  box  was  a  model  of  tidiness.  She  would 
be  late  for  lunch,  late  for  dinner,  late  for  any  social 
engagement,  but  never  once  was  she  late  for  a  pro- 
fessional appointment.  On  the  stage  her  loyalty  lo 
Andrew  never  wavered.  No  man  could  have  a  more 
ideal  co-worker.  She  never  lost  her  head,  demanded 
a  more  prominent  position,  or  grudged  him  the 
lion's  share  of  the  applause.  In  her  praiseworthy 
lack  of  theatrical  vanity,  writes  Lackaday,  by  way 
of  encomium,  she  was  unique  among  women.  A 
pearl  of  great  price. 

Also,  when  they  walked  abroad,  she  dressed  with 
neatness.  Her  hair,  a  stringy  bush  at  home,  ap- 
peared a  miracle  of  coiffure.  Lips  and  eyes  received 
punctilious  attention.  The  perfection  of  her  high- 
heeled  shoes  was  a  matter  of  grave  concern.  What- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  129 

ever  may  have  been  underneath,  the  outside  of  her 
toilette  received  anxious  care.  She  thought  much  of 
externals.  Andrew  came  within  her  purview.  She 
did  her  best  to  remodel  his  outer  man  more  in  ac- 
cordance with  his  prosperity;  but  what  woman  can 
have  sartorial  success  with  the  man  who  is  the 
tailor's  despair? 

Lackaday  is  pathetically  insistent  on  her  manifold 
virtues.  She  retains  all  through  the  years  her  street- 
child's  swift  intelligence.  She  has  flair.  She  pre- 
dicts instinctively  the  tastes  of  varying  audiences. 
She  has  a  vivid  imagination  curiously  controlled  by 
the  most  prosaic  common  sense.  He  rarely  errs  in 
taking  her  advice.  ...  To  her  further  credit  bal- 
ance, she  is  more  saving  than  extravagant.  Bits 
of  jewellery  please  her,  but  she  does  not  crave  in- 
ordinate adornment.  When  he  buys  a  touring-car 
for  the  greater  comfort  of  then*  vagrant  life,  she  is 
appalled  by  the  cost  and  upbraids  him  with  more 
than  a  touch  of  shrewishness.  Her  tastes  do  not 
rise  with  her  position.  She  would  sooner  have  a 
chou-croute  garnie  than  a  fore-quarter  of  Paris  lamb 
or  a  duck  a  la  presse.  She  could  never  understand 
why  Andrew  should  pay  four  or  five  francs  for  a 
bottle  of  wine,  when  they  could  buy  a  good  black 
or  grey  for  three  sous  a  litre.  On  tour  gaieties  were 
things  unthought  of.  But  during  periods  of  rest,  in 
Paris,  she  cared  little  for  excitement.  With  an  in- 
come relieving  her  from  the  necessity  of  work,  she 
would  have  been  content  to  lounge  slipshod  about 
the  house  till  the  day  of  her  death. 

Once  Andrew,  having  to  entertain,  for  politic 
reasons,  the  director  of  a  Paris  music-hall,  took  her 
to  the  Cafe  de  Paris.  The  guest,  in  a  millionaire 
way,  had  suggested  that  resort  of  half-hungry  wealth. 
Modest  Andrew  had  never  entered  such  a  place  in 
his  life;  nor,  naturally,  had  Elodie.  Knowing,  how- 
ever, that  one  went  there  in  full  dress,  he  disinterred 
a  dress-suit  which  he  had  bought  three  years  before 


130  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

in  order  to  attend  the  funeral  of  a  distinguished 
brother  artist,  and  sent  Elodie  with  a  thousand-franc 
note  to  array  herself  in  an  adequate  manner,  at 
the  Galeries  La  Fayette.  Elodie's  economical  soul 
shrank  in  horror  from  the  expenditure,  at  one  fell 
swoop,  of  a  thousand  francs.  She  bought  God  knows 
what  for  less  than  half  the  money. 

Proud  of  her  finery,  secretly  exulting  also  that  she 
had  a  matter  of  twenty  pounds  or  so  put  away  in 
her  private  stocking,  she  flaunted  down  the  crowded 
restaurant,  followed  by  the  little  fat  director,  only 
remarkable  for  a  diamond  flash-light  in  his  shirt- 
front,  and  by  Andrew,  inordinately  long  and  gawky, 
in  his  ill-fitting,  short-sleeved  evening  suit,  his  ready 
made  white  tie  already  wandering  in  grievance 
towards  a  sympathetic  ear.  Women  in  dreams  of 
diaphanous  and  exiguous  raiment  stared  derisively 
at  the  trio  as  they  passed  their  tables.  Elodie  stared 
back  at  them.  Now,  Lackaday,  honest  soul,  had 
not  the  remotest  notion  of  what  was  wrong  with 
her  attire.  In  his  eyes  she  was  dressed  like  a  queen. 
She  wore,  says  he,  a  beautiful  emerald  green  dress, 
and*  a  devil  of  a  hat  with  a  lot  of  dark  blue  feathers 
in  it.  But,  as  she  was  surrendering  her  cloak  to 
the  white-capped  lady  of  the  vestiare,  there  came 
from  a  merry  adjoining  table  the  clear-cut  remark 
of  a  young  woman,  all  bare  arms,  back  and  bosom, 
but  otherwise  impeccably  vestured: 

"They  oughtn  t  to  allow  it,  in  a  place  like  this  — 
des  grues  des  Batignolles." 

Unsuccessful  ladies  of  easy  virtue  from  White- 
chapel,  perhaps,  is  the  nearest  rendering  of  the  phrase. 

Eloclie  had  quick  ears.  She  also  had  the  quick 
temper  and  tongue  of  Marseilles.  She  hung  behind 
the  two  men,  who  proceeded  to  their  table  uncon- 
scious of  drama. 

"In  these  places,"  she  spat,  "they  pay  naked 
women  like  you  to  come  to  attract  men.  You  fear 
the  competition  of  the  modest,  ma  fdle" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  131 

The  indiscreet  young  woman  had  no  retort.  She 
flushed  crimson  over  neck  and  shoulders,  while 
Elodie,  triumphant,  swept  away.  But  the  ensuing 
dinner  was  not  an  exhilarating  meal.  She  burned 
with  the  insult,  dilated  upon  it,  repeated  over  and 
over  again  her  repartee,  offered  her  costume  to  the 
frank  criticism  of  Andrew  and  their  guest.  Did  she 
look  like  a  grue?  Did  her  toilette  in  any  way  sug- 
gest the  Batignolles?  In  vain  did  the  fat  director 
proclaim  her  ravishing.  Andrew,  at  first  indignant, 
assured  her  that  the  insulter  had  been  properly  set 
down.  If  it  had  been  a  man,  he  would  have  lifted 
the  puppy  from  his  chair  and  beaten  him  before  the 
whole  restaurant.  But  a  woman!  She  had  met  her 
match  in  Elodie.  In  vain  he  confirmed  the  director's 
opinion.  Elodie  could  not  eat.  Food  stuck  in  her 
throat;  she  could  only  talk  interminably  of  the  out- 
rage. The  little  fat  director  made  his  escape  as  soon 
as  he  had  eaten  the  last  mouthful  of  dinner. 

"Eh  bien"  said  Elodie,  as  they  were  driving  home 
to  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis,  "and  is  it  all  fixed  up, 
the  Paris  contract?" 

"My  dear,"  replied  Andrew  gently,  "you  gave  us 
little  chance  to  discuss  it." 

"I  prevented  you?"  cried  Elodie.  "I?  Bon  Dieuf 
Oh  no.  It  is  too  much.  You  first  take  me  to  a  place 
where  I  am  insulted,  and  then  reproach  me  for  being 
an  obstacle  between  you  and  your  professional  suc- 
cess. No  doubt  the  naked  woman  Would  be  a  better 
partner  for  you.  She  could  wheedle  and  coax  that 
little  horror  of  a  manager.  I,  who  am  an  honest 
woman,  am  a  drag  on  you " 

And  so  on,  with  a  whirling  unreason,  with  which 
Andrew  had  grown  familiar.  But  the  episode  of  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  marks  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
Elodie's  acquaintance  with  the  smart  world.  She 
hates  it  with  a  fierce  jealousy,  knowing  that  it  is  a 
sphere  beyond  her  ken.  Herein  lay  a  fundamental 
principle  of  her  character.  The  courtesan,  with  her 


132  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

easy  adaptability  to  the  glittering  environment  which 
she  craves,  and  Elodie,  essentially  child  of  the  people, 
proud,  and  virtuous  according  to  her  lights,  were 
worlds  apart.  A  bit  of  a  socialist,  Elodie,  she  stuck 
fiercely  to  her  class.  People  she  was.  People  she 
would  remain.  A  daw  of  the  people,  she  had  tried 
to  peacock  it  among  the  gentry.  She  had  been  de- 
tected in  her  borrowed  plumes.  At  the  stupid  refer- 
ence to  her  supposed  morals  she  snapped  her  fingers. 
It  was  idiotic.  It  was  the  detection  of  the  plumage 
that  rankled  in  her  soul.  From  that  moment  she 
hated  society  and  every  woman  in  it  with  an  elabo- 
rate ostentation.  The  very  next  day  she  sold  the 
emerald  green  dress  and  the  devil  of  a  hat  and,  with 
a  certain  grim  satisfaction,  stuffed  the  proceeds  into 
the  stocking  of  economy.  In  spite  of  the  disastrous 
dinner,  Andrew  obtained  the  Paris  engagement.  He 
was  not,  however,  greatly  surprised  —  so  far  had 
his  education  advanced  —  when  Elodie  claimed  the 
credit. 

"At  that  dinner  —  what  did  you  do?  You  sat 
silent  as  the  obelisk  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde. 
It  was  I  who  made  all  the  conversation.  Monsieur 
Wolff  was  very  enchanted." 

Andrew  grinned. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you, 
Elodie,"  said  he. 

Now,  in  sketching  the  life  of  Andrew  Lackaday 
and  Elodie,  I  again  labour  under  the  difficulty 
of  having  to  compress  into  a  few  impressionistic 
strokes  the  history  of  years.  The  task  is  in  one 
way  made  easier,  in  that  these  years  of  work  and 
wandering  scarcely  show  the  development  of  any- 
thing. What  was  true  at  the  end  of  the  first  year 
of  their  partnership  seems  to  be  true  at  the  end  of 
the  second,  third,  fourth  and  fifth.  After  a  tune 
when  their  grotesque  performance  was  a  fixed  and 
settled  thing,  there  was  little  need  for  the  invention 
of  novelty  or  for  rehearsal.  Week  after  week, 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  133 

month  after  month,  year  after  year,  they  repro- 
duced their  almost  stereotyped  entertainment.  Here 
and  there,  according  to  the  idiosyncrasy  of  the  audi- 
ence, they  introduced  some  variety.  But  the  very 
variations,  in  course  of  time,  became  stereotyped. 
Too  violent  a  change  proved  disastrous.  The  pub- 
lic demanded  the  particular  antics  with  which  the 
name  of  Les  Petit  Patou  was  identified.  Thus  life 
was  reduced  to  terms  of  beautiful  simplicity. 

Yet,  perhaps,  after  all,  their  sentimental  relations 
did  undergo  an  imperceptible  development,  as  subtle 
as  that  which  led  hi  the  first  place  to  their  union. 
This  union  had  its  original  promptings  in  a  not  un- 
romantic  chain  of  circumstances.  Of  vulgarity  or 
sordidness  it  had  nothing.  Had  Elodie  been  free 
it  would  never  have  entered  Andrew's  head  not  to 
marry  her,  and  she  would  have  married  him  off- 
hand. Lackaday  insists  on  our  remembering  this 
vital  fact.  Sincere  affection  drew  them  together. 
Then  the  first  couple  of  years  or  so  were  devoted  to 
mutual  discoveries.  There  was  no  question  on  either 
part  of  erring  after  strange  fancies.  Elodie  carried 
her  air  of  propriety  in  the  happy-go-lucky  music-hall 
werld  almost  to  the  point  01  the  absurd.  As  for 
Andrew,  he  had  ever  shown  himself  the  most  lagging 
Lothario  of  his  profession.  Indeed,  for  a  period 
during  which  she  suffered  an  exaggeration  of  her 
own  sentiments,  she  upbraided  him  for  not  being 
the  perfect  lover  of  her  half-forgotten  dreams.  .  .  . 

"Why  don't  you  love  me  any  longer,  Andre?" 

"But  I  love  you,  surely.  That  goes  without 
saying." 

"Then  why  do  you  go  on  reading,  reading  all  the 
time  instead  of  telling  me  so?" 

She  would  be  lying  on  a  couch,  dressed  in  her 
soiled  wrapper  and  old  bedroom  slippers,  occupied 
with  nothing  but  boredom,  while  Andrew  devoted 
himself  to  the  unguided  pursuit  of  knowledge,  the 
precious  pleasure  of  his  life.  He  would  put  the 


134  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

book  face  downwards  on  his  knee  and  pucker  his 
brows. 

"Mon  Dieu,  ma  cherie,  what  do  you  want  me  to 
say?" 

'That  you  love  me." 

'I've  just  said  it." 

'Say  it  again." 

*Je  I'dime  bien.     Voila!" 

'And  that's  all?" 

'Of  course  it's  all.  What  remains  to  be  said?" 
The  honest  fellow  was  mystified.  He  could  not 
keep  on  repeating  the  formula  for  the  two  or  three 
hours  of  their  repose.  It  would  be  the  monotonous 
reiteration  of  the  idiot.  And  he  could  no  more  have 
knelt  by  her  side  arid  poured  out  his  adoration  in  the 
terms,  let  us  say,  of  Chastelard,  than  he  could  have 
lectured  her  on  Hittite  inscriptions.  What  did  she 
want? 

She  sighed.  He  cared  for  his  old  book  much  more 
than  for  her. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  "if  you  would  only  read  a  bit 
you  would  find  it  a  great  comfort  and  delight." 

You  see,  at  this  rather  critical  period,  each  had 
their  grievance  —  Elodie  only,  of  course,  as  far  as 
their  private  lives  were  concerned.  Elodie,  somewhat 
romantically  inclined,  wanted  she  knew  not  what. 
Perhaps  a  recrudescence  of  the  fine  frenzy  of  the  early 
days  of  her  marriage  with  Raoul.  Sober  Andrew 
craved  some  kind  of  intellectual  companionship.  If 
Elodie  grudged  him  the  joy  of  books  and  he  yielded  to 
her  resentment,  he  was  a  lost  mountebank.  And 
the  very  devil  of  it  was  that,  just  at  this  time,  he  had 
discovered  the  most  fascinating  branch  of  literature 
imaginable.  Creasy's  Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the 
World,  picked  up  in  a  cheap  edition,  had  put  him  on 
the  track.  He  procured  Kinglake's  Crimea.  He  was 
now  deep  in  the  study  of  Napier's  Peninsular  War. 
He  studied  it,  pencil  in  hand  and  notebook  by  his 
side,  filled  with  diagrams  and  contours  of  country 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  135. 

and  little  parallelograms  all  askew  denoting  Army 
Corps  or  divisions.  Of  course,  he  did  not  expect, 
Elodie  to  interest  herself  in  military  history,  but  he 
deplored  her  unconcealed  hatred  of  his  devotion  to  a 
darling  pursuit.  Why  could  not  she  find  pleasure  in 
some  intelligent  occupation?  To  spend  one's  leisure 
in  untidy  sloth  did  not  consort  with  the  dignity  of  a 
human  being.  Why  didn't  she  do  this  or  that?  She 
rejected  all  suggestions.  Retorted:  Why  couldn't 
he  spend  a  few  hours  in  relaxation  like  everybody 
else?  If  only  he  would  go  and  play  billiards  at  the 
cafe.  That  he  should  amuse  himself  outside  among 
men  was  only  natural.  Sitting  at  home,  in  her  com- 
pany, over  a  book,  got  on  her  nerves.  i  j 

Horatio  Bakkus  encouraged  her  maliciously.  In 
Paris  he  made  the  flat  in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis 
his  habitual  resting-place,  and  ate  his  meals  in  their 
company  at  the  cafe  round  the  corner. 

"  If  there  is  one  thing,  my  dear  Elodie,  more  futile 
than  fighting  battles,  it  is  reading  about  them,"  he 
declared  at  one  of  their  symposia.  I 

"  Voila!  You  hear  what  Horace  says!  An  edu- 
cated man  who  knows  what  he  is  talking  about." 

"  It's  a  kind  of  disease,  like  chess  or  the  study  of 
the  Railway  Guide.  And  when  he  prefers  it  to  the 
conversation  of  a  beautiful  and  talented  woman, 
it's  worse  than  a  disease,  it's  a  crime.  My  dear 
fellow,"  he  cried  with  an  ironical  gleam  in  his  dark 
eyes,  "you're  blind  to  the  treasure  the  gods  have 
given  you.  Any  ass  can  write  a  text-book,  but  the 
art  of  conversation  is  a  gift  bestowed  by  Heaven 
upon  the  very  few." 

Elodie,  preening  herself,  asked: 

"  Is  it  true  that  I  have  that  gift?  " 

"  You  have  the  flow  of  words.  You  have  wit.  You 
talk  like  a  running  brook.  You  talk  like  no  book 
that  ever  was  written.  I  would  sooner,  my  dear, 
listen  to  the  ripple  of  your  speech  than  read  all  the 
manuals  of  military  science  the  world  has  produced." 


136  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Andrew  saw  her  flattered  to  fluttering  point. 

"Don't  you  know  that  he  is  the  greatest  blaguew 
in  existence?"  he  asked. 

But  Elodie  had  fallen  under  the  spell  of  Bakkus. 
Like  him  she  loved  talk,  although  her  education 
allowed  her  only  the  lightest  kind.  She  loved  its 
give-and-take,  its  opportunities  for  the  flash  of  wit 
or  jest.  Bakkus  could  talk  about  an  old  boot.  She 
too.  He  could  analyse  sentiment  in  his  mordant 
way.  She  could  analyse  it  in  her  own  unsophisticated 
fashion.  Now  Andrew,  though  death  on  facts  and 
serious  argument,  remained  dumb  and  bewildered  in 
a  passage-at-arms  about  apparently  nothing  at  all; 
and  while  Bakkus  and  Elodie  enjoyed  themselves 
prodigiously,  he  gaped  at  them,  wondering  what  the 
deuce  they  found  to  laugh  at.  He  was  for  ever 
warning  Elodie  not  to  put  a  too  literal  interpreta- 
tion on  Bakkus's  sayings. 

The  singer  had  gone  grey,  and  that  touch  of 
venerability  gave  him  an  air  of  greater  distinction, 
as  a  broken  down  tragedian,  than  he  possessed  when 
Andrew  had  first  met  him  ten  years  or  so  before. 
Elodie  could  bandy  jests  with  him,  but  when  he 
spoke  with  authority  she  listened  overawed. 

"  My  dear  Andre,  she  replied  to  his  remark.  "  I 
am  not  a  fool.  I  know  when  Horace  is  talking  non- 
sense and  when  he  means  what  he  says." 

"And  I  maintain,"  said  Bakkus,  "that  this  most 
adorable  woman  is  being  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of 
Caesar's  Commentaries  and  the  latest  French  hand- 
book on  scientific  slaughter." 

"I  think,"  said  Andrew,  who  had  imprudently 
sketched  his  course  of  reading  to  the  cynic,  "that 
The  Art  of  War  by  Colonel  Foch  is  the  most  masterly 
thing  ever  written  on  the  subject  of  warfare." 

"But  who  is  going  to  war,  these  days,  my  good 
fellow?" 

"They're  at  it  now,"  said  Andrew. 

"The  Balkans  —  Turkey  —  Bulgaria?     Barbari- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  137 

ans.  What's  that  got  to  do  with  civilized  England 
and  France?" 

"What  about  Germany?" 

"Germany's  never  going  to  sacrifice  her  commer- 
cial position  by  going  to  war.  Among  great  powers 
war  is  a  lunatic  anachronism." 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu,"  cried  Elodie,  "now  you're  talk- 
ing politics." 

Bakkus  took  her  hand  which  held  a  fork  on  which 
was  prodded  a  gherkin  —  they  were  at  lunch  —  and 
raised  it  to  his  hps. 

"  Pardon,  chsre  madame.  It  was  this  maniac  of 
an  Andre.  He  is  mad  or  worse.  Years  ago  I  told 
him  he  ought  to  be  a  sergeant  in  a  barrack  square." 

"Just  so!"  cried  Elodie.  "Look  at  him  now. 
Here  he  is  as  soft  as  two  pennyworth  of  butter.  But 
in  the  theatre,  if  things  do  not  go  quite  as  he  wants 
them  —  oh  la  la!  It  is  Right  turn  —  Quick  march! 
Bnr!  And  I  who  speak  have  to  do  just  the  same  as 
the  others." 

"I  know,"  said  Bakkus.  "A  Prussian  without 
bowels.  Ah,  my  poor  Elodie!  My  heart  bleeds  for 
you." 

"Where  do  you  keep  it  —  that  organ?"  asked 
Andrew. 

"He  keeps  it,"  retorted  Elodie,  "where  you 
haven't  got  it.  Horace  understands  me.  You  don't. 
Horace  and  I  are  going  to  talk.  You  smoke  your 
cigar  and  think  of  battles  and  don't  interfere." 

It  was  said  laughingly,  so  that  Andrew  had  no 
cause  for  protest;  but  beneath  the  remark  ran  a 
streak  of  significance.  She  resented  the  serious  tone 
at  which  Andrew  had  led  the  conversation.  He  and 
his  military  studies  and  his  war  of  the  future! 
They  bored  her  to  extinction.  She  glanced  at  him 
obliquely.  A  young  man  of  thirty,  he  behaved  him- 
self like  the  senior  of  this  youthful,  flashing,  elderly 
man  who  had  the  gift  of  laughter  and  could  pluck  out 
for  her  all  that  she  had  of  spontaneity  in  Me. 


138  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

This  conversation  was  typical  of  many  which 
filled  Elodie's  head  with  an  illusion  of  the  brilliant 
genius  of  Horatio  Bakkus.  In  spite  of  her  peevish- 
ness she  had  a  wholesome  respect  for  Andrew  —  for 
his  honesty,  his  singleness  of  purpose,  his  gentle 
masterfulness.  But,  all  the  same,  their  common 
detection  of  the  drill-sergeant  in  his  nature  formed 
a  sympathetic  bond  between  Bakkus  and  herself. 
In  the  back  of  her  mind,  she  set  Andrew  down  as 
a  dull  dog.  For  all  his  poring  over  books,  Bakkus 
could  defeat  him  any  day  in  argument.  The  agree- 
able villain's  mastery  of  phrase  fascinated  her.  And 
what  he  didn't  know  about  the  subtle  delicacies  of 
women's  temperament  was  not  worth  knowing. 
She  could  tell  him  anything  and  count  on  sympathy; 
whereas  Andrew  knew  less  about  women  than  about 
his  poodle  dog. 

There  was,  I  say,  this  mid-period  of  their  union 
when  they  grew  almost  estranged.  Andrew,  in  spite 
of  his  loyalty,  began  to  regret.  He  remembered 
the  young  girl  who  had  rushed  to  him  so  tearfully 
as  he  was  bending  over  the  body  of  Prepimpin  —  the 
flashing  vision  of  the  women  of  another  world.  In 
such  a  one  would  he  find  the  divine  companionship. 
She  would  stand  with  him,  their  souls  melting  to- 
gether in  awe  before  the  majesty  of  Chartres,  in  wor- 
ship before  the  dreaming  spires  of  Rheims,  in  joy 
before  the  smiling  beauty  01  Azay-le-Rideau.  They 
would  find  a  world  of  things  to  say  of  the  rugged 
fairyland  of.Auvergne  or  the  swooning  loveliness  of 
the  Cote  d'Azur.  They  would  hear  each  other's 
heart  beating  as  they  viewed  great  pictures,  their 
pulses  would  throb  together  as  they  listened  to 
great  opera.  He  would  fie  at  her  feet  as  she  read  the 
poets  that  she  loved.  She  would  also  take  an  affec- 
tionate interest  in  military  strategy.  She  would 
be  different,  oh,  so  different  from  Elodie.  To  Elodie, 
save  for  the  comfort  of  inns,  the  accommodation  of 
dressing-rooms  and  the  appreciation  of  audiences, 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  139 

one  town  was  exactly  the  same  as  another.  She 
found  amusement  in  sitting  at  a  cafe  with  a  glass  of 
syrup  and  water  in  front  of  her,  and  listening  to  a 
band;  otherwise  she  had  no  aesthetic  sense.  She 
used  terms  regarding  cathedrals  and  pictures  for 
which  boredom  is  the  mildly  polite  euphemism. 
A  busy  street  gay  with  shop  windows  attracted 
her  far  more  than  any  grandeur  of  natural 
scenery.  She  loved  displays  of  cheap  millinery 
and  underwear.  Andrew  could  not  imagine  the 
Other  One  requiring  his  responsive  ecstasy  over 
a  fifteen-franc  purple  hat  with  a  green  feather,  or 
a  pile  of  silk  stockings  at  four  francs  fifty  a 
pair.  .  .  .  The  Other  One,  in  a  moment  of  deli- 
cious weakness,  might  stand  enraptured  before  a 
dream  of  old  lace  or  exquisite  tissue  or  what  not, 
and  it  would  be  his  joy  to  take  her  by  the  hand, 
enter  the  shop  and  say  "It  is  yours."  But  Elodie 
had  no  such  moments.  Her  economical  habits 
gave  him  no  chance  of  divine  extravagance.  Even 
when  he  took  her  in  to  buy  the  fifteen-franc  hat, 
she  put  him  to  shame  by  trying  to  bargain. 

So  they  lost  touch  with  each  other  until  a  bird 
or  two  brought  them  together  again.  Figuratively 
it  is  the  history  of  most  unions.  In  theirs,  the 
birds  were  corporeal.  It  was  at  Montpellier.  An 
old  man  had  a  turn  with  a  set  of  performing  birds, 
canaries,  perroquets,  love-birds,  beauregards.  Elodie 
came  across  him  rehearsing  on  the  stage.  She 
watched  the  rehearsal  fascinated.  Then  she  ap- 
proached the  cages. 

"Faites  attention,  Madame"  cried  the  old  man 
in  alarm.  "You  will  scare  them.  They  knew  no 
one  but  me." 

" Mais  non,  mais  non"  said  Elodie.  " Voyons, 
ga  me  connait" 

She  spoke  from  idle  braggadocio.  But  when  she 
put  her  hands  on  the  cages,  the  birds  came  to  her. 
They  hopped  about  her  fearlessly.  She  fished  in 


140  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

her  pockets  for  chocolate  —  her  only  extravagant 
vice  —  and  bird  after  bird  pecked  at  the  sweet 
from  her  mouth.  The  old  man  said: 

"Truly  the  birds  know  you,  Madame.  It  is 
a  gift.  No  one  can  tell  whence  it  comes  —  and  it 
comes  to  very  few.  There  are  also  human  beings 
for  whom  snakes  have  a  natural  affinity." 

Elodie  shuddered.  "Snakes!  I  prefer  birds.  Ah, 
le  petit  amour.  Viens  done!" 

She  had  them  all  about  her,  on  head  and  shoulders 
and  arms,  all  unafraid,  all  content;  then  all  flutter- 
ing with  their  clipped  wings,  about  her  lips,  except 
a  grey  parrot  who  rubbed  his  beak  against  her  ear. 

Andrew,  emerging  suddenly  from  the  wings, 
stood  wonder-stricken. 

"But  you  are  a  bird-woman,"  said  he.  "I  have 
heard  of  such,  but  never  seen  one." 

From  that  moment,  the  town-bred,  town-com- 
pelled woman  who  had  thought  of  bird-life  only 
in  terms  of  sparrows,  set  about  to  test  her  unsus- 
pected powers.  And  what  the  old  man  and  Andrew 
had  said  was  true.  .  .  *.  They  wandered  to  the 
Peyrou,  the  beautiful  Louis  XIV  terraced  head 
of  the  great  aqueduct,  and  sat  in  the  garden  — 
she  alone,  Andrew  some  yards  apart  —  and  once 
a  few  crumbs  attracted  a  bird,  it  would  hop  nearer 
and  nearer,  and  if  she  was  very  still  it  would  light 
on  her  finger  and  eat  out  of  the  palm  of  her  hand, 
and  if  she  were  very  gentle,  she  could  stroke  the 
wild  thing's  head  and  plumage. 

A  new  and  wonderful  interest  came  into  her  life. 
To  find  birds,  Elodie,  who  by  this  time  hated  walk- 
ing from  hotel  to  music-hall,  so  had  her  indolence 
grown  accustomed  to  the  luxurious  car,  tramped 
tor  miles  through  the  woods  accompanied  by 
Andrew  almost  as  excited  as  herself  at  the  new  dis- 
covery. And  he  bought  her  books  on  birds,  from 
which  she  could  learn  their  names,  then*  distinguish- 
ing colours  and  marks,  their  habits  and  their  cries. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  141 

It  must  be  remarked  that  the  enthusiastic  search 
for  knowledge,  involving,  as  it  did,  much  physical 
exertion,  lasted  only  a  summer.  But  it  sufficed  to 
re-establish  friendly  relations  between  the  drifting 
pair.  She  found  an  interest  in  life  apart  from 
the  professional  routine.  During  the  autumn  and 
winter  she  devoted  herself  to  the  training  of  birds, 
and  Andrew  gave  her  the  benefit  of  his  life's  experi- 
ence in  the  science.  They  travelled  about  with 
an  aviary.  And  while  Andrew,  now  unreproached, 
frowned,  pencil  in  hand  and  notebook  by  his  side, 
over  the  strategics  of  the  Franco-Prussian  War, 
Elodie,  always  in  her  slatternly  wrapper,  spent  en- 
raptured hours  in  putting  her  feathered  troupe 
through  their  pretty  tricks  or  in  playing  with  them 
foolishly  as  one  plays  with  a  dog. 

Thus  their  midway  mutual  grievances  impercepti- 
bly vanished.  The  positive  was  eliminated  from 
their  relations.  They  had  been  beginning  to 
hate  each  other.  Hatred  ceased.  Perhaps  Elodie 
dreamed  now  and  then  of  the  Perfect  Lover.  Andrew 
had  ever  at  the  back  of  his  soul  the  Far-away 
Princess,  the  Other  One,  the  Being  who  would 
enable  him  to  formulate  a  mode  of  nebulous  exist- 
ence and  spiritual  chaos,  and  then  to  live  the  won- 
drous life  recalled  by  the  magical  formula.  I  must 
insist  on  this,  so  that  you  can  recognize  that  the 
young  and  successful  mountebank,  although  dead 
set  on  the  perfection  of  his  mountebankery,  and, 
in  serious  fact,  never  dreaming  of  a  work-a-day 
existence  outside  the  walls  of  a  Variety  Theatre 
yet  had  the  tentacles  of  his  being  spread  gropingly, 
blindly,  octopus-like,  to  the  major  potentialities 
of  life.  Even  when  looking  back  upon  himself,  as 
he  does  in  the  crude  manuscript,  he  cannot  account 
for  these  unconscious,  or  subconscious,  feelings.  He 
has  no  idea  of  the  cause  of  the  fascination  wrought 
on  him  by  military  technicalities.  It  might  have 
been  chess,  it  might  have  been  conchology,  it 


142  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

might  have  been  heraldry.  Hobbies  are  more  or 
less  unaccountable.  In  view  of  his  later  career 
it  seems  to  me  that  he  found  in  the  unalluring  text- 
books of  Clausewitz  and  Foch  and  those  bound  in 
red  covers  for  the  use  of  the  staff  of  the  British 
Army,  some  expressions  of  a  man's  work — which 
was  absent  from  the  sphere  into  which  fate  had 
set  him  clad  in  green  silk  tights.  The  subject  was 
instinct  with  the  commanding  brain.  If  his  lot 
had  been  cast  in  the  theatre  proper,  instead  of  in 
the  music-hall,  he  might  have  become  a  great 
manager.  However,  all  that  is  by  the  way.  The 
important  thing,  for  the  time  we  are  dealing  with, 
is  his  relations  with  Elodie  for  the  remainder  half 
of  their  union  before  the  war.  These,  I  have  said, 
ceased  to  be  positive.  They  accepted  their  united 
life  as  they  accepted  the  rain  and  the  sunshine  and 
the  long  motor  journeys  from  town  to  town.  Spir- 
itually they  went  each  their  respective  ways,  un- 
molested by  the  other.  But  they  each  formed  an 
integral  part  of  the  other's  existence.  They  were 
bound  by  the  indissoluble  ties  of  habit.  And  as 
Elodie,  now  that  she  had  got  her  birds  to  amuse 
her,  made  no  demands  on  Andrew,  and  as  Andrew, 
who  had  schooled  his  tidy  soul  to  toleration  of  her 
slovenliness,  made  no  demands  on  Elodie,  they 
were  about  as  happy  as  any  pan-  in  France. 

When  she  passed  thirty,  her  face  coarsened  and 
her  uncared-for  figure  began  to  spread. 

And  then  the  war  broke  out. 


CHAPTER  XI 

rTIHE  outbreak  of  war  knocked  the  Petit  Patou 

variety    combination    silly,    as    it    knocked 

-*-    many  thousands  of  other  combinations  in 

France.    One  day  it  was  a  going  concern  worth  a 

pretty  sum  of  money;   the  next  day  it  was  gone. 

They  happened  to  be  in  Paris,  putting  in  a  fort- 
night's rest  after  an  exhausting  four  months  on  the 
road,  and  waiting  for  the  beginning  of  a  beautiful 
tour  booked  for  Aix-les-Bains,  for  the  race-weeks 
at  Dieppe  and  Deauville,  for  Biarritz  —  the  cream 
of  August  and  September  resorts  of  the  wealthy. 
.  .  .  Then,  in  a  dazzling  flash,  mobilization.  No 
more  actors,  no  more  stage  hands,  no  more  croupi- 
ers, no  more  punters,  no  more  theatre-goers.  No 
more  anything  but  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men 
getting  into  uniform  and  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  women  trying  to  smile  but  weeping  inward  blood. 
Contracts,  such  as  Andrew's,  were  blown  away  like 
thistledown. 

Peremptory  authorities  recpiired  Andrew's  papers. 
They  had  done  so  years  before  when  he  reached  the 
age  of  military  service.  But  now,  as  then,  they 
proved  Andrew  indisputably  to  be  a  British  subject 
—  he  had  to  thank  Ben  Flint  for  that  —  and  the 
authorities  went  their  growling  way. 

"What  luck!"  cried  Elodie,  when  she  heard  the 
result  of  the  perquisition.  >  "Otherwise  you  would 
have  been  taken  and  sent  off  to  this  sale  guerre." 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  replied  Andrew,  with  a  grim 
set  of  his  ugly  jaw,  "that  I'm  not  going  off  to  the 
sale  guerre,  without  being  sent." 

"But  it  is  idiotic,  what  you  say!"  cried  Elodie, 
in  consternation.  "What  do  you  think,  Horace?" 

143 


144  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Bakkus  threw  a  pair  of  Elodie's  corsets  which 
encumbered  the  other  end  of  the  sofa  on  which  he 
was  lounging  on  to  the  floor  and  put  up  his  feet 
and  sucked  at  his  cigar,  one  of  Andrew  s  best  — 
the  box,  by  the  way,  Elodie,  who  kept  the  key  of 
a  treasure  cupboard,  seldom  brought  out  except 
for  Bakkus  —  and  said: 

"Andrew  isn't  a  very  intellectual  being.  He 
bases  his  actions  on  formulas.  Such  people  in  times 
of  stress  even  forget  the  process  of  thought  that  led 
to  the  establishment  of  the  formulas.  They  shrink 
into  a  kind  of  trained  animal.  Andrew  here  is  just 
like  a  little  dog  ready  to  do  his  tricks.  Some  voice 
which  he  can't  resist  will  soon  say,  'Bingo,  die  for 
your  country.'  And  our  good  friend,  without  chang- 
ing a  muscle  of  his  ugly  face,  will  stretch  himself 
out  dead  on  the  floor." 

"Truth,"  said  Andrew,  with  a  hard  glint  in  his 
eyes,  "does  sometimes  issue  from  the  lips  of  a  fool." 

Bakkus  laughed,  passing  his  hand  over  his  silver- 
ing locks;  but  Elodie  looked  very  serious.  Absent- 
mindedly  she  picked  up  her  corsets,  and,  the  weather 
being  sultry,  she  fanned  herself  with  them. 

"You  are  going  to  enlist  in  the  Legion?" 

"I  am  an  Englishman,  and  my  duty  is  towards 
my  own  country." 

"Bingo  is  an  English  dog,"  said  Bakkus. 

Reaction  from  gladness  made  Elodie's  heart  grow 
cold,  filled  it  with  sudden  dread.  It  was  hard. 
Most  of  the  women  of  France  were  losing  their  men 
of  vile  necessity.  She,  one  of  the  few  privileged  by 
law  to  retain  her  man,  now  saw  him  swept  away  in 
the  stream.  Protest  could  be  of  no  avail.  When 
the  mild  Andrew  set  his  mug  of  a  face  like  that  — 
his  long  smiling  lips  merged  into  each  other  like 
two  slugs,  and  his  eyes  narrowed  to  little  pin  points, 
she  knew  that  neither  she  nor  any  woman  nor  any 
man  nor  the  bon  Dieu  Himself  could  move  him  from 
his  purpose.  She  could  only  smile  rather  miserably. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  145 

"Isn't  it  a  little  bit  mad,  your  idea?" 

"Mad?  Of  course  he  is,"  said  Bakkus.  "Much 
reading  in  military  text-books  has  made  him  mad. 
A  considerably  less  interesting  fellow  than  Andrew, 
who,  after  all,  has  a  modicum  of  brains,  one  Don 
Quixote,  achieved  immortality  by  proceeding  along 
the  same  lunatic  lines." 

Then  Elodie  flashed  out.  She  understood  noth- 
ing of  the  allusion,  but  she  suspected  a  sneer. 

"If  I  were  a  man  I  should  fight  for  France.  If 
Andre  thinks  it  is  his  duty  to  fight  for  England,  it 
may  be  mad,  but  it  is  fine,  all  the  same.  Yesterday, 
in  the  street,  I  sang  the  Marseillaise  with  the  rest. 
*  Amour  sacre  de  la  Patrick  Eh  bien!  There  are 
other  countries  besides  France.  Do  you  deny  that 
the  amour  sacre  exists  for  the  Englishman?" 

Andrew  rose  and  gravely  took  Elodie's  face  in 
his  delicate  hands  and  kissed  her. 

"  I  never  did  you  the  wrong,  my  dear,  of  thinking 
you  would  feel  otherwise." 

"Neither  did  I,  my  good  Elodie,"  said  Bakkus, 
hurriedly  opportunist.  "If  I  have  had  one  ambi- 
tion in  my  Me  it  is  to  sun  myself  in  the  vicarious 
glamour  of  a  hero." 

The  corsets  rolled  off  Elodie's  lap  as  she  turned 
swiftly. 

"You  really  think  Andre  if  he  enlists  in  the 
English  Army  will  be  a  hero?" 

"Without  doubt,"  replied  Bakkus. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Elodie.  "You  haye  such  a 
habit  of  mocking  all  the  world  that  when  you  are 
talking  of  serious  things  one  doesn't  know  what 
you  mean." 

So  peace  was  made.  In  the  agitated  days  that 
followed  she  saw  that  a  profound  patriotism 
underlay  Bakkus's  cynicism,  and  she  relied  much 
on  his  counsel.  Every  man  that  England  could 
put  into  the  field  was  a  soldier  fighting  for  France. 
She  glowed  at  the  patriotic  idea.  Andrew,  to  .his 


146  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

great  gladness,  noted  that  no  hint  of  the  cry  "  What 
is  to  become  of  me?"  passed  her  lips.  She  counted 
on  his  loyalty  as  he  had  counted  on  hers.  When 
he  informed  her  of  the  arrangement  he  had  made 
with  her  lawyer  for  her  support  during  his  absence, 
all  she  said  was: 

"Mori  cher,  it  is  far  too  much!  I  can  live  on  half. 
And  as  for  the  will  —  let  us  not  talk  of  it.  It  makes 
me  shiver." 

Here  came  out  all  that  was  good  hi  Elodie.  She 
took  the  war  and  its  obligations,  as  she  had  taken 
her  professional  work.  Through  all  her  flabbiness 
ran  the  rod  of  steel.  She  suffered,  looking  forward 
with  terror  to  the  unthinkable  future.  Already 
one  of  her  friends,  Jeanne  Duval,  comedienne, 
was  a  widow.  .  .  .  What  would  life  be  without 
Andre?  She  trembled  before  the  illimitable  blank- 
ness.  The  habit  of  him  was  the  habit  of  her  life, 
like  eating  and  drinking;  his  direction  her  guiding 
principle.  Yet  she  dominated  her  fears  and  showed 
a  brave  face. 

Often  a  neighbour,  meeting  her  in  the  quarter, 
would  say: 

"You  are  fortunate,  Madame.  You  will  not 
lose  your  husband."  To  the  quarter,  as  indeed 
to  all  the  world,  they  were  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Patou.  "He  is  an  Englishman  and  won't  be 
called  up." 

She  would  flash  with  proud  retort:  — 

"In  England  men  are  not  called  up.  They  go 
voluntarily.  Monsieur  Patou  goes  to  join  the 
English  army." 

She  was  not  going  to  make  her  sacrifice  for 
nothing. 

To  Bakkus  Andrew  confided  the  general  charge 
of  Elodie. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  cynic,  "isn't  it  rather 
overdoing  your  saintly  simplicity?  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  Farce  'Occupe-toi  d'Amelie?'  Do  I  appeal 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  147 

to  you  as  a  squire  of  deserted  dames,  grass-widows 
endowed  with  plenty?  I  —  a  man  of  such  indefi- 
nite morals  that  so  long  as  I  have  mutton  cutlets 
I  don't  in  the  least  care  who  pays  for  them?  Aren't 
you  paying  for  this  very  mouthful  now?" 

"You  are  welcome,"  replied  Andrew  with  a  grin, 
"to  all  the  mutton  that  Elodie  will  give  you." 

Elodie's  only  proclaimed  grievance  against  Bakkus, 
whom  otherwise  she  vastly  admired,  was  his  un- 
disguised passion  for  free  repasts. 

When  it  came  to  parting,  Elodie  wept  and  sobbed. 
He  marvelled  at  her  emotion. 

"You  love  me  so  much,  my  little  Elodie?" 

"Mais  tu  es  ma  vie  toute  entiere.  Haven't  you 
understood  it?" 

In  that  sense  —  no.  He  had  not  understood. 
They  had  arranged  their  lives  so  much  as  business 
partners,  friends,  fate-linked  humans  dependent  on 
each  other  for  the  daily  amenities  of  a  joint  exist- 
ence. He  had  never  suspected;  never  had  cause  to 
suspect,  this  hidden  flood  of  sentiment.  The  simple 
man's  heart  responded.  For  such  love  she  must 
be  repaid.  In  the  packed  train  which  sped  him 
towards  England  he  carried  with  him  no  small 
remorse  for  past  indifference. 

Now,  what  next  happened  to  Andrew,  is,  as  I 
have  said  before,  omitted  from  his  manuscript. 
Nor  has  he  vouchsafed  to  me,  in  conversation, 
anything  but  the  rudest  sketch.  All  we  know  is 
that  he  enlisted  straight  into  the  regular  Army, 
the  Grenadier  Guards.  Millions  of  Tommies  have 
passed  through  his  earlier  experiences.  His  gym- 
nastic training,  his  professional  habits  of  accuracy 
and  his  serious  yet  alert  mind  bore  him  swiftly 
through  preliminary  stages  to  high  efficiency.  In 
November,  1914,  he  found  himself  in  Flanders. 
Wounded,  a  few  months  afterwards,  he  was  sent 
home,  patched  up,  sent  back  again.  Late  in  1915, 


148  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

a  sergeant,  he  had  his  first  leave,  which  he  spent 
in  Paris. 

Elodie  received  him  with  open  arms.  She  was 
impressed  by  the  martial  bearing  of  her  ramrod  of 
a  man,  and  she  proudly  fingered  the  three  stripes 
on  his  sleeve  and  the  D.C.M.  ribbon  on  his  breast. 
She  took  him  for  walks,  she  who,  in  her  later  supine- 
ness,  hated  to  put  one  foot  before  the  other  —  by 
the  Grands  Boulevards,  the  Rue  Royale,  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  the  Champs  Elysees,  hanging  on 
his  arm,  with  a  recrudescence  of  the  defiant  air  of 
the  Marseilles  gamine.  She  made  valiant  efforts 
to  please  her  hero  who  had  bled  in  great  battles 
and  had  returned  to  fight  in  great  battles  again. 
She  had  a  thousand  things  to  tell  him  of  her  life  in 
Paris,  to  which  the  man,  weary  of  the  mud  and 
blood  of  war,  listened  as  though  they  were  revela- 
tions of  Paradise.  Yet,  she  had  but  existed  idly 
day  in  and  day  out,  in  the  eternal  wrapper  and 
slippers,  with  her  cage  of  birds.  The  little  beasts 
kept  her  alive  —  it  was  true.  One  was  dull  in  Paris 
without  men.  And  the  women  of  her  acquaintance, 
mostly  professional,  were  in  poverty.  They  had 
the  same  cry,  "My  dear,  lend  me  ten  francs.'* 
"My  little  Elodie,  I  am  on  the  rocks,  my  man  is 
killed."  "Ma  bien  aimee,  I  am  starving.  You  who 
are  at  ease,  let  me  come  and  eat  with  you"  —  and 
so  on  and  so  on.  Her  heart  grieved  for  them;  but 


jue  veux-tu?  —  one  was  not  a  charitable  institution. 

ay 
nothing  of  her  hourly  anxiety.     If  only  the  sate 


que  ve 
So  it 


was  all  very  sad  and  heartrending.     To 


guerre  would  cease  and  they  could  go  on  tour  again! 
Ah,  those  happy  days! 

"Were  they,  after  all,  so  very  happy?"  asked 
Andrew. 

"One  was  contented,  free  from  care." 

"But  now?" 

"May  they  not  come  to  tell  me  at  any  minute 
that  you  are  killed?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  149 

"That's  true,"  said  Andrew  gravely. 

"And  besides—" 

She  paused. 

"Besides,  what?" 

"I  love  you  more  now,"  replied  Elodie. 

Which  gave  Andrew  food  for  thought,  when- 
ever he  had  time  at  the  front  to  consider  the 
appetite. 

When  next  he  had  a  short  leave  it  was  as  a  Lieu- 
tenant; but  Elodie  had  gone  to  Marseilles,  braving 
the  tedious  third-class  journey,  to  attend  her 
mother's  funeral.  There  Madame  Figasso  having 
died  intestate,  she  battled  with  authorities  and 
lawyers  and  the  huissier  Boudin  who  professed 
heartbreak  at  her  unfilial  insistence  on  claiming  her 
little  inheritance.  With  the  energy  which  she 
always  displayed  in  the  serious  things  of  life  she 
routed  them  all.  She  sold  the  furniture,  the  dress- 
making business,  wrested  the  greasy  bag  of  savings 
from  the  hands  of  a  felonious  and  discomfited 
Boudin,  and  returned  to  Paris  with  some  few 
thousand  francs  in  her  pocket.  Horatio  Bakkus, 
meanwhile,  had  moved  into  the  Saint-Denis  flat 
to  take  care  of  the  birds.  Nobody  in  France  crav- 
ing the  services  of  a  light  tenor,  he  would  have 
starved,  had  not  his  detested  brother  the  Arch- 
deacon, a  rich  man,  made  him  a  small  allowance. 
It  was  a  sad  day  for  him  when,  after  a  couple  of 
months'  snug  lying,  he  had  to  betake  himself  to 
his  attic  under  the  roof,  where  he  shivered  in  the 
coalless  city. 

"I  die  of  convention,"  said  he.  "Behold,  you 
have  a  spare  room  centrally  heated.  You  are  virtue 
itself.  I  not  only  occupy  the  sacred  position  of 
your  guardian,  but  am  humiliatingly  aware  of  my 
supreme  lack  of  attraction.  And  yet " 

'Fich'-moi  le  camp,"  laughed  Elodie. 

And  Bakkus  took  up  his  old  green  valise  and 
returned  to  his  eyrie.  There  should  be  no  scandal 


150  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

in  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis  if  Elodie  could  help  it. 
But  a  few  days  later 

"A/i,  je  mennuie,  je  rrfennuie"  she  cried  in  an 
accent  of  boredom. 

Then  Bakkus  elaborated  a  Machiavellian  idea. 
Why  shouldn't  she  work?  At  what?  Why,  hadn't 
she  a  troupe  of  trained  birds?  Madame  Patou  was 
not  the  first  comer  in  the  variety  world.  She  could 
get  engagements  in  the  provinces.  How  did  she 
know  that  the  war  would  not  last  longer  than 
Andrew's  savings? 

"Mon  Dieu,  it  is  true,"  she  said. 

Forthwith  she  went  to  the  agent  Mpignon.  After 
a  few  weeks  she  started  on  the  road  with  her  aviary, 
and  Bakkus  once  more  left  his  eyrie  to  take  charge 
of  the  flat  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Denis. 

It  came  to  pass  that  the  next  time  Andrew  and 
Elodie  met  in  their  Paris  house,  he  wore  a  Major's 
crown  and  the  ribbons  of  the  Distinguished  Service 
Order,  the  Military  Cross  and  the  Legion  of  Honour. 
From  his  letters  she  had  grasped  but  little  of  his 
career  and  growing  distinction;  but  the  sight  of 
him  drove  her  mad  with  pride.  If  she  had  loved  to 
parade  the  Paris  streets  with  him  as  a  Sergeant, 
now  she  could  scarcely  bear  to  exist  with  him  other- 
wise than  in  public  places.  Not  only  an  officer,  but 
almost  a  Colonel.  And  decorated  —  he,  an  English 
officer,  with  the  Legion  of  Honour!  The  British 
decorations  she  scarcely  understood  —  but  they 
made  a  fine  display.  The  salutes  from  uniformed 
men  of  every  nation  almost  turned  her  head.  The 
little  restaurant  round  the  corner,  where  they  had 
eaten  for  so  many  years,  suddenly  appeared  to  her 
an  inappropriate  setting  for  his  exalted  rank.  She 
railed  against  its  meanness. 

"Let  us  eat  then,"  laughed  Andrew,  who  had 
not  given  the  matter  a  thought,  "on  the  Place  de 
la  Madeleine." 

But  if  the  Restaurant  Mangin  in  the  Faubourg 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  151 

Saint-Denis  was  too  lowly,  the  Restaurant  Weber 
frightened  her  by  its  extravagance.  She  hit  upon 
the  middle  course  of  engaging  a  cook  for  the  wonder- 
ful fortnight  of  his  leave  and  busying  herself  with 
collaborating  in  the  preparation  of  succulent  meals. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Andrew,  sitting  at  his  own 
table  in  the  tiny  and  seldom-used  satte  a  manger 
for  the  first  time  since  their  early  disastrous  experi- 
ence of  housekeeping,  "why  in  the  world  haven't 
we  had  this  cosiness  before?" 

He  seemed  to  have  entered  a  new  world  of  sacred 
domesticity.  The  outward  material  sign  of  the  in- 
ward grace  drew  him  nearer  to  her  than  all  protesta- 
tions of  affection. 

"Why  have  you  waited  all  these  years?"  he 
asked. 

Elodie,  expansive,  rejoicing  in  the  success  of  the 
well-cooked  dinner,  reproached  herself  generously. 
It  was  all  her  fault.  Before  the  war  she  had  been 
ignorant,  idle.  But  the  war  had  taught  her  many 
things.  Above  all  it  had  taught  her  to  value  her 
petit  homme. 

"Because  you  now  see  him  in  his  true  colours," 
observed  Bakkus,  who  took  for  granted  a  seat  at 
the  table  as  the  payment  for  his  guardianship. 
"The  drill  sergeant  I  always  talked  to  you  about." 

"Sergeant!  Elodie  flung  up  her  head  in  disdain. 
"He  is  Commandant.  And  see  to  it  that  you  are 
not  wanting  in  respect." 

"From  which  outburst  of  conjugal  ferocity,  my 
dear  fellow,"  said  Bakkus,  "you  can  gauge  the 
conscientiousness  of  my  guidance  of  Elodie  during 
your  absence." 

Andrew  grinned  happily.  He  was  full  of  faith  in 
both  of  them  —  loving  woman,  loyal  friend. 

" It  is  true,"  said  he,  "that  I  have  found  my  voca- 
tion." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  the  war  is  over 
and  Othello's  occupation  is  gone?" 


152  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"I  don't  think  the  war  will  ever  be  over,"  he 
laughed.  "It's  no  good  looking  ahead.  For  the 
present  one  has  to  regard  soldiering  as  a  permanent 
pursuit." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Bakkus.  "He'll  cry  when 
it's  over  and  he  can't  move  his  pretty  soldiers 
about." 

"That  is  true?"  asked  Elodie,  in  the  tone  of  one 
possessed  of  insight. 

Andrew  shrugged  his  shoulders,  a  French  trick 
out  of  harmony  with  his  British  uniform. 

"Perhaps,"  said  he  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  too, '  said  Elodie,  "  will  be  sorry  when  you 
become  Petit  Patou  again." 

He  touched  her  cheek  caressingly  with  the  back 
of  his  hand,  and  smiled.  Strange  how  the  war  had 
brought  her  the  gift  of  understanding.  Never  had 
he  felt  so  close  to  her. 

"All  the  same,"  added  Elodie,  "it  is  very  danger- 
ous la-bas,  mon  cheri  —  and  I  don't  want  you  to  get 
killed." 

"All  the  glory  and  none  of  the  death,"  said 
Bakkus.  "Conducted  on  those  principles,  warfare 
would  be  ideal  employment  for  the  young.  But 
you  would  be  going  back  to  the  Middle  Ages,  when, 
if  a  knight  were  kiQed,  he  was  vastly  surprised  and 
annoyed.  Personally  I  hate  the  war.  It  prevents 
me  from  earning  a  living,  and  insults  me  with  the 
sense  of  my  age,  physical  decay  and  incapacity.  I 
haven't  a  good  word  to  say  for  it." 

"If  you  only  went  among  the  wounded  in  the 
Paris  hospitals,"  replied  Andrew,  with  some  asper- 
ity, "and  sang  to  them " 

"My  good  fool,"  said  Bakkus,  "I've  been  doing 
that  for  about  four  or  five  hours  a  day  since  the 
war  began,  till  I've  no  voice  left." 

"Didn't  you  know?"  cried  Elodie.    "Horace  has 
never  worked  so  hard  in  his  life.    And  for  nothing 
In  his  way  he  is  a  hero  like  you." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  153 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  you  tell  me?"  cried 
Andrew. 

Bakkus  flung  a  hand.  "If  you  hadn't  to  dress 
the  part  what  should  I  have  known  of  your  rank 
and  orders?  Would  you  go  about  saying  'I'm  a 
dam  fine  fellow'?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Andrew,  filling  his  guest's 
glass.  "I  ought  to  have  taken  it  for  granted." 

"We  give  entertainments  together,'  said  Elodie. 
"He  sings  and  I  take  the  birds.  Ah!  the  poilus. 
They  are  like  children.  When  Riquiqui  takes  off 
Paulette's  cap  they  twist  themselves  up  with  laugh- 
ing. //  faut  voir  fa." 

This  was  all  news  to  Andrew,  and  it  delighted 
him  beyond  measure.  He  could  take  away  now 
to  the  trenches  the  picture  of  Elodie  as  ministering 
angel  surrounded  by  her  birds  —  an  exquisite, 
romantic,  soul-satisfying  picture. 

"But  why,"  he  asked  again,  "didn't  you  tell 
me?" 

"Ah,  tu  sais  —  letters  —  I  am  not  very  good 
at  letters.  Faute  &  education.  I  want  so  much  to 
tell  you  what  I  feel  that  I  forget  to  tell  you  what 
I  do." 

Bakkus  smiled  sardonically  as  he  sipped  his 
liqueur  brandy.  She  had  given  her  bird  perform- 
ance on  only  two  occasions.  She  had  exaggerated 
it  into  the  gracious  habit  of  months  or  years.  Just 
like  a  woman!  Anyhow,  the  disillusionment  of 
Andrew  was  none  of  his  business.  The  dear  old 
chap  was  eating  lotus  in  his  Fool's  Paradise,  think- 
ing it  genuine  pre-war  lotus  and  not  war  ersatz.  It 
would  be  a  crime  to  disabuse  him. 

For  Andrew  the  days  of  leave  sped  quickly.  Not 
a'domestic  cloud  darkened  his  relations  with  Elodie. 
Through  indolent  and  careless  living  she  had  grown 
gross  and  coarse,  too  unshapely  and  unseemly  for 
her  age.  When  the  news  of  his  speedy  arrival  in 
Paris  reached  her,  she  caught  sight  of  herself  in  her 


154  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

mirror  and  with  a  sudden  pang  realized  her  lack  of 
attraction.  In  a  fever  she  corseted  herself,  creamed 
her  face,  set  a  coiffeur  to  work  his  will  on  her  hair. 
But  what  retrieval  of  lost  comeliness  could  be 
effected  in  a  day  or  two?  The  utmost  thing  of  prac- 
tical value  she  could  do  was  to  buy  a  new,  gay 
dressing-gown  and  a  pair  of  high-heeled  slippers. 
And  Andrew,  conscious  of  waning  beauty,  over- 
looked  it  in  the  light  of  her  new  and  unsuspected 
coquetry.  Where  once  the  slattern  lolled  about  the 
little  salon,  now  moved  an  attractively  garbed  and 
tidy  woman.  Instead  of  the  sloven,  he  found  a  house- 
wife who  made  up  in  zeal  for  lack  of  experience. 
The  patriotic  soldier's  mate  replaced  the  indifferent 
and  oft-times  querulous  partner  of  Les  Petit  Patou. 
It  is  true  that,  when,  in  answer  to  the  question,  "A 
battle  —  what  is  that  like?"  he  tried  to  interest 
her  in  a  scientific  exposition,  she  would  interrupt 
him,  a  love-bird  on  her  finger  and  its  beak  at  her 
lips,  with:  "Look,  isn't  he  sweet?"  thereby  throw- 
ing him  out  of  gear;  it  is  true  that  she  yawned  and 
frankly  confessed  her  boredom,  as  she  thad  done  for 
many  years  when  the  talk  of  Andrew  and  Bakkus 
went  beyond  her  intellectual  horizon;  but  —  que 
voulez-vous?  —  even  a  great  war  cannot,  in  a  few 
months,  supply  the  deficiencies  of  thirty  uneducated 
years.  The  heart,  the  generous  instinct  —  these 
were  the  things  that  the  war  had  awakened  in 
Elodie  —  and  these  were  the  things  that  mattered 
and  made  him  so  gracious  a  homecoming.  And 
she  had  grasped  the  inner  truth  of  the  war.  She 
had  accepted  it  in  the  grand  manner,  like  a  daughter 
of  France.  ' 1 

So  at  least  it  seemed  to  Andrew.  The  depth  of 
her  feelings  he  did  not  try  to  gauge.  Into  the  part 
n  her  demonstrativeness  played  by  vanity  or  by 
momentary  reaction  from  the  dread  of  losing  him, 
her  means  of  support,  it  never  entered  his  head  to 
enquire.  That  she  should  sun  herself  hi  reflected 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  155 

splendour  for  the  benefit  of  the  quarter  and  of  such 
friends  as  she  had,  and  that  she  should  punctiliously 
exact  from  them  the  respect  due  to  his  military 
rank,  afforded  him  gentle  amusement.  He  knew 
that,  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  she  would 
relapse  into  slipshod  ways.  But  her  efforts  de- 
lighted him,  proved  her  love  and  her  loyalty.  For 
the  third  time  he  parted  from  her  to  go  off  to  the 
wars,  more  impressed  than  ever  by  the  sense  of  his 
inappreciation  of  her  virtues.  He  wrote  her  a  long 
letter  of  self-upbraiding  for  the  past,  and  the  con- 
trast between  the  slimy  dug-out  where  he  was 
writing  by  the  light  of  one  guttering  candle,  and 
the  cosy  salon  he  had  just  quitted  being  productive 
of  nostalgia,  he  expressed  himself,  for  once  in  his 
life,  in  the  terms  of  an  ardent  lover. 

Elodie,  who  found  his  handwriting  difficult  to 
read  at  the  best  of  times,  and  undecipherable  in 
hard  pencil  on  thin  paper,  handed  the  letter  over  to 
the  faithful  Bakkus,  who  read  it  aloud  with  a  run- 
ning commentary  of  ironic  humour.  This  Andrew 
did  not  know  till  long  afterwards. 

In  a  few  weeks  he  got  the  command  of  his  bat- 
talion. 

Bakkus  wrote:  — 

"How  you'll  be  able  to  put  up  with  us  now  I 
know  not.  Elodie  can  scarcely  put  up  with  herself. 
She  gives  orders  in  writing  to  tradesmen  now  and 
subscribes  herself  'Madame  La  Colonelle  Patou.' 
She  has  turned  down  a  bird  engagement  offered  by 
Moignon,  as  beneath  her  present  dignity.  You 
had  better  come  home  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Andrew  laughed  and  threw  the  letter  away.  He 
had  far  more  serious  things  to  attend  to  than 
Elodie's  pretty  foibles.  And  when  you  are  com- 
manding a  crack  regiment  in  a  famous  division  in 
the  line  you  no  more  think  of  leave  than  of  running 
away  from  the  enemy.  Months  passed  —  of  fierce 
fighting  and  incessant  strain,  and  he  covered  him- 


156  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

self  with  glory  and  completed  the  rainbow  row  of 
ribbons  on  his  breast,  until  Petit  Patou  and  Elodie 
and  Bakkus  and  the  apartment  in  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Denis  became  things  of  a  far-off  dream. 

And  before  he  saw  Elodie  again,  he  had  met 
Lady  Auriol  Dayne. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THAT  was  the  devil  of  it.  He  had  met  Lady 
Aiuiol  Dayne.  He  had  found  in  that  frank 
and  capable  young  woman  —  or  thought  he 
had  found,  which  comes  to  the  same  thing  —  the 
Princesse  Lointaine  of  his  dreams.  If  she  differed 
from  that  nebulous  and  characterless  paragon,  were 
less  ethereal,  more  human  nature's  daily  food,  so 
much  the  better.  She  possessed  that  which  he  had 
yearned  for  —  quality.  .  She  had  style  —  like  the 
prose  of  Theophile  Gautier,  the  Venus  of  Milo,  the 
Petit  Trainon.  She  suggested  Diana,  who  more 
than  all  goddesses  displayed  this  gift  of  distinction; 
yet  was  she  not  too  Diana-ish  to  be  unapproachable. 
On  the  contrary,  she  blew  about  him  as  free  as  the 
wind.  .  .  .  That,  in  a  muddle-headed  way,  was  his 
impression  of  her:  a  subtle  mingling  of  nature  and 
artistry.  On  every  side  of  her  he  beheld  perfection. 
Physically,  she  was  as  elemental  as  the  primitive 
woman  superbly  developed  by  daily  conditions  of 
hardship  and  danger;  spiritually,  as  elemental  as 
the  elves  and  fairies;  and  over  her  mind  played  the 
wisdom  of  the  world. 

Thus,  in  trying  to  account  for  her  to  himself,  did 
the  honest  Lackaday  flounder  from  trope  to  meta- 
phor. "To  love  her,"  he  quotes  from  Steele,  "is 
a  liberal  education." 

The  last  time  he  met  her  in  England,  was  after 
my  departure  for  Paris.  You  will  remember  that 
just  before  then  he  had  confided  to  me  his  identity 
as  Petit  Patou  and  had  kept  me  up  half  the  night. 
It  was  a  dismal  April  afternoon,  rain  and  mud  out- 
side, a  hopeless  negation  of  the  spring.  They  had 
the  drawing-room  to  themselves  —  to  no  one,  the 

157 


158  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

order  had  gone  forth,  was  her  ladyship  at  home  — 
that  drawing-room  of  Lady  Auriol  which  Lackaday 
regarded  as  the  most  exquisite  room  in  the  world. 
It  had  comfort  of  soft  chairs  and  bright  fire  and 
the  smell  of  tea  and  cigarettes;  but  it  also  had  the 
style,  to  him  so  precious,  with  which  his  fancy  in- 
vested her.  The  note  of  the  room  was  red  lacquer 
partly  inherited,  partly  collected,  the  hangings  of 
a  harmonious  tone,  and  the  only  pictures  on  the  dis- 
tempered walls  the  colour-prints  of  the  late  eigh- 
teenth century.  It  had  the  glow  of  smiling  auster- 
ity, the  unseizable,  paradoxical  quality  of  herself. 
An  old  Sevres  tea-service  rested  on  a  Georgian  silver 
tray,  which  gleamed  in  the  firelight.  Wherever  he 
looked,  he  beheld  perfection.  And  pouring  out  the 
tea  stood  the  divinity,  a  splendid  contrast  to  the 
shrine,  yet  again  paradoxically  harmonious;  full- 
bosomed,  warm  and  olive,  wearing  blue  serge  coat 
and  skirt,  her  blouse  open  at  her  smooth  throat, 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  walking  through  the  rain, 
her  eyes  kind. 

For  a  while,  like  a  Knight  in  the  Venusberg,  he 
gave  himself  up  to  the  delight  of  her.  Then  sud- 
denly he  pulled  himself  together,  and,  putting  down 
his  teacup,  he  said  what  he  had  come  to  say:  — 

"This  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  ever  see  you." 

She  started. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  Are  you  going 
off  to  the  other  end  of  the  world?" 

"I'm  going  back  to  France." 

"When?" 

"To-morrow  morning." 

She  twisted  round  in  her  chair,  her  elbow  on  the 
arm  and  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  looked  at  him. 

"That's  sudden,  isn't  it?" 

He  smiled  rather  sadly.  "When  once  you've 
made  up  your  mind,  it's  best  to  act,  instead  of 
hanging  on." 

rou're  sure  there's  no  hope  in  this  country?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  159 

"I  know  I'm  as  useful  as  a  professional  wine- 
taster  wiU  soon  be  in  the  United  States." 

They  laughed,  resumed  the  discussion  of  many 
previous  meetings.  Had  he  tried  this,  that  or  the 
other  opening?  He  had  tried  everything.  No  one 
wanted  him. 

"So,"  said  he,  "I'm  making  a  clean  cut  and 
returning  to  France." 

"I'm  sorry."  She  sighed.  "Very  sorry.  You 
know  I  am.  I  hoped  you  would  remain  in  England 
and  find  some  occupation  worthy  of  you  —  but, 
after  all  —  France  isn't  Central  China.  We  shall 
still  be  next-door  neighbours.  The  Channel  can  be 
easily  crossed  by  one  of  us.  You  used  the  word 
*  ever,'  you  know,"  she  added  with  an  air  of  challenge. 

"I  did." 

"Why?" 

"That  would  take  a  lot  of  telling,"  said  Andrew 
grimly. 

"We've  got  hours,  if  you  choose,  in  front  of  us." 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  time,"  said  he. 

"Then,  my  good  Andrew,  what  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"Only  that  I  must  return  to  the  place  I  came 
from,  my  dear  friend.  Let  it  rest  at  that." 

She  lit  a  cigarette.    "Rather  fatalistic,  isn't  it?" 

"Four  years  of  fighting  make  one  so." 

"You  speak,"  said  she,  after  a  little  reflection 
occasioning  knitting  of  the  brows,  "you  speak  like 
the  Mysterious  Unknown  of  the  old  legends  —  the 
being  sent  from  Hell  or  Heaven  or  any  other  old  place 
to  the  earth  to  accomplish  a  mission.  You  know 
what  I  mean.  He  lives  the  life  of  the  world  into 
which  he  is  thrown  and  finds  it  very  much  to  his 
liking.  But  when  the  mission  is  fulfilled  —  the 
Powers  that  sent  him  say:  'Your  time  is  up.  Re- 
turn whence  you  came.'  And  the  poor  Make-be- 
lieve of  a  human  has  got  to  vanish." 

"You  surely  aren't  jesting?"  he  asked. 


160  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"No,"  she  said.  "God  forbid  I  I've  too  deep  a 
regard  for  you.  Besides,  I  believe  the  parable  is 
applicable.  Otherwise  how  can  I  understand  your 
ior  ever'?" 

"  I'm  glad  you  understand  without  my  blundering 
into  an  explanation,"  he  replied.  "It's  something, 
as  you  say.  Only  the  legendary  fellow  goes  back  to 
cool  his  'heels  —  or  the  reverse  —  in  Shadow  Land, 
whereas  I'll  still  continue  to  inhabit  the  comfort- 
able earth.  I'm  as  Earth-bound  as  can  be." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  continued:  — 

"Fate  or  what  you  will  dragged  me  from  obscur- 
ity into  the  limelight  of  the  war  to  play  my  little 
part.  It's  over.  I've  nothing  more  to  do  on  the 
stage.  Fate  rings  down  the  curtain.  I  must  go 
back  into  obscurity.  La  commedia  e  finita." 

"It's  more  like  a  tragedy,"  said  she. 

Andrew  made  a  gesture  with  his  delicate  hands. 

"A  comedy's  not  a  farce.  Let  us  stick  to  the 
comedy." 

"Less  heroically  —  let  us  play  the  game,"  she 
suggested. 

"  If  you  like  to  put  it  that  way." 

She  regarded  him  searchingly  out  of  frank  eyes; 
her  face  had  grown  pale. 

"  If  you  gave  me  the  key  to  your  material  Shadow 
Land,  it  would  not  be  playing  the  game?" 

' '  You  are  right,  my  dear, ' '  said  he.    "It  wouldn't. ' ' 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  Lady  Auriol. 

He  rose,  mechanically  adjusted  his  jacket,  which 
always  went  awry  on  his  gaunt  frame.  "I  want 
to  say  something,"  he  declared  abruptly.  "You're 
the  only  lady  —  highly-bred  woman  —  with  whom 
I've  been  on  terms  01  friendship  in  my  life.  It  has 
been  an  experience  far  more  wonderful  than  you 
can  possibly  realize.  I'll  keep  it  as  an  imperishable 
memory"  —  he  spoke  bolt  upright  as  though  he 
were  addressing  troops  on  parade  before  a  battle 
—  "it's  right  that  you  should  know  I'm  not  un- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  161 

grateful  for  all  you  have  done  for  me.  I've  only 
one  ambition  left  —  that  you  should  remember  me 
as  a  soldier  —  and  —  in  my  own  way  —  a  gentle- 
man." 

"A  very  gallant  gentleman,"  she  said  with  quiver- 
ing lips. 

He  held  out  his  hand,  took  hers,  kissed  it  French 
fashion. 

"Good-bye  and  God  bless  you,"  said  he,  and 
marched  out  of  the  room. 

She  stood  for  a  while,  with  her  hand  on  her  heart 
—  suffering  a  pain  that  was  almost  physical.  Then 
she  rushed  to  the  door  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice 
over  the  balustrade  of  the  landing: 

"Andrew,  come  back." 

But  the  slam  of  the  front  door  drowned  her  call. 
She  returned  to  the  drawing-room  and  threw  up 
the  window.  Andrew  was  already  far  away,  tearing 
down  the  rainswept  street. 

Now,  if  Andrew  had  heard  the  cry,  he  would  have 
heard  that  in  it  which  no  man  can  hear  unmoved. 
He  would  have  leaped  up  the  stairs  and  there  would 
have  been  as  pretty  a  little  scene  of  mutual  avowals 
as  you  could  wish  for.  Auriol  knew  it.  She  has 
frankly  told  me  so.  Not  until  this  last  interview 
was  she  certain  of  his  love.  But  then,  although  he 
said  nothing,  any  fool  of  a  woman  could  have  seen 
it  as  clear  as  daylight.  And  she  had  been  planted 
there  like  a  stuck  pig  all  the  time  —  her  ipsissima 
verba  (O  Diana  distinction  of  lover's  fancy!)  and 
when  common  sense  came  to  her  aid,  she  just  missed 
him  by  the  fraction  of  a  second.  .  .  .  Yet,  after 
all,  my  modern  Diana  —  or  Andrew's,  if  you  prefer 
it  —  had  her  own  modern  mode  of  telling  an  elderly 
outsider  about  her  love  affairs  —  the  mode  of  the 
subaltern  from  whom  is  dragged  the  story  of  his 
Victoria  Cross.  Andrew  Lackaday's  cpiaintly  formu- 
lated idealizations  had  their  foundations  in  fact. 
This  is  by  the  way.  What  happened  next  was 


162  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Lady  Auriol's  recovery  of  real  common  sense  when 
she  withdrew  her  head  and  her  rained-upon  hat 
from  the  window  and  drew  down  the  sash.  She 
flew  to  her  bedroom,  stamped  about  with  clenched 
fists  until  she  had  dried  up  at  their  source  the  un- 
Auriol  like  tears  that  threatened  to  burst  forth. 
Her  fury  at  her  weakness  spent,  she  felt  better  and 
strangled  the  temptation  to  write  him  then  and 
there  a  summons  to  return  that  evening  for  a  full 
explanation.  My  God!  Hadn't  they  had  their 
explanation?  If  he  could  in  honour  have  said,  "I 
am  a  free  live  man  as  you  are  a  free  live  woman, 
and  I  love  you  as  you  love  me"  —  wouldn't  he 
have  said  it?  He  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
make  a  mystery  about  nothing.  Into  the  mystery 
she  was  too  proud  to  enquire.  Enough  for  her  to 
know  in  her  heart  that  he  was  a  gallant  gentleman. 
She  should  have  stopped  at  her  parable.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  she  let  Andrew  return  to  France 
unaware  of  the  tumult  he  had  raised.  That  he  had 
won  her  interest,  her  respect,  her  friendship  — 
even  her  affectionate  friendship  —  he  was  perfectly 
aware.  But  that  his  divinity  was  just  foolishly 
and  humanly  in  love  with  him  he  had  no  notion. 
He  consoled  himself  with  reflections  on  her  impecca- 
bility, her  wondrous  intuition,  her  Far-away  Princess- 
like  delicacy.  Who  but  she  could  have  summed  up 
in  a  parable  the  whole  dismal  situation? 

Well,  the  poor  Make-believe  had  to  vanish. 

The  last  time  he  travelled  to  Boulogne  it  was  in 
a  military  train.  He  had  a  batman  who  looked 
after  his  luggage.  He  wore  a  baton  and  sword  on 
his  shoulder-straps.  Only  now,  a  civilian  in  a 
packed  mass  of  civilians,  did  he  recognize  what  a 
mighty  personage  he  then  was  —  a  cock  of  the 
walk,  saluted,  "sired,"  treated  with  deference. 
None  of  the  old-fashioned  pit-of-the-theatre  scram 
for  passport  inspection,  on  the  smoking-room  deck. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  163 

And  there,  on  the  quay,  were  staff  officers  and 
R.T.O.'s  awaiting  him  with  a  great  car  —  no  worry 
about  Customs  or  luggage  or  anything  —  every- 
thing done  for  him  by  eager  young  men  without  his 
bidding  —  and  he  had  thought  nothing  of  it.  In- 
deed, if  there  had  been  a  hitch  in  the  machinery 
which  conveyed  him  to  his  brigade,  he  would  have 
made  it  hot  for  the  defaulter.  And  now  —  with  a 
third  share  in  a  porter  he  struggled  through  the 
Customs  in  the  midst  of  the  perspiring  civilian 
crowd,  and,  emerging  on  to  the  platform,  found  a 
comfortless  middle  seat  in  an  old  German  first-class 
carriage  built  for  four.  There  were  still  many  men 
in  uniform,  English,  French  and  American,  doing 
Heaven  knows  what  about  the  busy  station.  But 
none  took  notice  of  him,  and  he  lounged  discon- 
solately by  the  carriage  door  waiting  for  the  train 
to  start.  He  scarcely  knew  which  of  his  experiences, 
then  or  now,  was  an  illusion. 

In  spite  of  the  civilian  horde,  women,  young  girls, 
mufti-clad  men,  the  station  still  preserved  a  military 
aspect.  A  company  of  blue-clad  poilus  sat  some 
way  off,  in  the  middle  of  their  packs,  eating  a 
scratch  meal.  Here  and  there  were  bunches  of 
British  Tommies,  with  a  sergeant  and  a  desultory 
officer,  obviously  under  discipline.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  the  war  should  be  ended  —  that 
he,  General  Lackaday,  should  have  finished  with 
it  for  ever. 

At  last,  a  young  subaltern  passed  him  by,  recog- 
nized him  after  a  second,  saluted  and  paused  unde- 
cided. A  few  months  ago,  Andrew  would  have 
returned  his  salute  with  brass-hatted  majesty,  but 
now  he  smiled  his  broad  ear-to-ear  smile,  thrust 
out  his  long  arm  and  gripped  the  young  man's  hand. 
It  was  Smithson,  one  of  his  brigade  staff  —  a  youth 
of  mediocre  efficiency,  on  whom,  as  the  youth 
remembered,  he  was  wont  most  austerely  to  frown. 
But  all  this  Andrew  forgot. 


164  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  cried.  "How  glad  I  am  to 
see  you." 

It  was  as  if  a  survivor  from  a  real  world  had 
appeared  before  him  in  a  land  of  dreams.  He  ques- 
tioned him  animatedly  on  his  doings.  The  boy 
responded  wonderingly.  At  last:- 

When  are  you  going  to  be  demobilized?" 

The  subaltern  smiled.  "I  hope  never,  sir.  I'm 
a  regular." 

"Lucky  devil,"  said  Andrew.  "Oh,  you  lucky 
devil!  I'd  give  anything  to  change  places  with  you." 

"I'm  on,  sir,"  laughed  Smithson.  "I'm  all  for 
being  a  Brigadier-General." 

"  Not  on  the  retired  list  —  out  of  the  service," 
said  Andrew. 

The  train  began  to  move.  Andrew  jumped 
hastily  into  his  compartment  and,  leaning  out  of 
the  window  before  the  stout  Frenchman,  waved 
a  hand  to  the  insignificant  young  man  in  the  King's 
uniform.  With  all  his  soul  he  envied  him  the  privi- 
lege of  wearing  it.  He  cursed  his  stiff-neckedness 
in  declining  the  Major's  commission  offered  by  the 
War  Office.  A  line  of  Tennyson  reminiscent  of  the 
days  when  Bakkus  had  guided  his  reading  came 
into  his  head.  Something  about  a  man's  own 
angry  pride  being  cap  and  bells  for  a  fool.  He  tried 
to  find  repose  against  the  edge  of  the  sharp  double 
curve  that  divided  the  carriage  side  into  two  por- 
tions. The  trivial  discomfort  irritated  him.  The 
German  compartment  might  be  a  symbol  of  victory, 
but  it  was  also  a  symbol  of  the  end  of  the  war,  the 
end  of  the  only  intense  life  full  of  meaning  which  he 
had  ever  known. 

As  the  train  went  on,  he  caught  sight  from  the 
window  of  immense  stores  of  war  —  German  wag- 
gons with  their  military  destinations  still  marked 
in  chalk,  painted  guns  of  all  calibres,  drums  of 
barbed  wire,  higgledy-piggledy  truck-loads  of  scrap, 
all  sorts  of  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  great  conflict. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  165 

All  useless,  done  with,  never  to  be  thought  of  again, 
so  the  world  hoped,  in  the  millennium  that  was  to 
be  brought  about  by  the  League  of  Nations.  Yet 
it  seemed  impossible.  In  wayside  camps,  at  rail- 
way stations,  he  saw  troops  of  the  three  great  coun- 
tries. Now  and  then  train-loads  of  them  passed. 
It  was  impossible  that  the  mighty  hosts  they  repre- 
sented should  soon  melt  away  into  the  dull  flood 
of  civil  life.  The  war  had  been  such  a  mighty, 
such  a  gallant  thing.  Of  course  the  genius  of  man- 
kind must  now  be  bent  to  the  reconstruction  of  a 
shattered  world.  He  knew  that.  He  knew  that 
regret  at  the  ending  of  the  universal  slaughter  would 
be  the  sentiment  of  a  homicidal  lunatic.  Yet  deep 
down  in  his  heart  there  was  some  such  regret,  a 
gnawing  nostalgia. 

After  Amiens  they  passed  by  the  battle-fields.  A 
young  American  officer  sitting  by  the  eastern  win- 
dow pointed  them  out  to  him.  He  explained  to 
Andrew  what  places  had  been  British  gun  emplace- 
ments, pointed  to  the  white  chalk  hues  that  had 
been  British  trenches.  Told  him  what  a  trench 
looked  like.  Andrew  listened  grimly.  The  youth 
had  pointed  out  of  window  again.  Did  he  know 
what  those  were?  Those  were  shell-holes.  Ger- 
man shells.  .  .  .  Presently  the  conductor  came 
through  to  examine  tickets.  Andrew  drew  from 
his  pocket  his  worn  campaigning  note-case  and 
accidently  dropped  a  letter.  The  young  American 
politely  picked  it  up,  but  the  typewritten  address 
on  the  War  Office  envelope  caught  his  eye.  "  Briga- 
dier-General Lackaday,  C.B."  He  handed  it  to 
Andrew,  flushing  scarlet. 

"Is  that  your  name,  sir?" 

"It  is,"  said  Andrew. 

"Then  I  reckon,  sir,  I've  been  making  a  fool  of 
myself." 

"Every  man,"  said  Andrew,  with  his  disarming 
smile,  "is  bound  to  do  that  once  in  his  hie.  It's 


166  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

best  to  get  it  over  as  soon  as  possible.  That's  the 
way  one  learns.  Especially  in  the  army." 

But  the  young  man's  talk  had  rubbed  in  his  com- 
plete civiliandom. 

As  the  train  neared  Paris,  his  heart  sank  lower 
and  lower.  The  old  pre-war  life  claimed  him  merci- 
lessly, and  he  was  frozen  with  a  dread  which  he  had 
never  felt  on  the  fire-step  in  the  cold  dawn  await- 
ing the  lagging  hour  of  zero.  On  the  entrance  to 
the  Gare  du  Nord  he  went  into  the  corridor  and 
looked  through  the  window.  He  saw  Elodie  afar 
off.  Elodie,  in  a  hat  over  her  eyes,  a  fur  round  her 
neck,  her  skirt  cut  nearly  up  to  her  knees  showing 
fat,  white-stockinged  calves.  She  had  put  on  much 
flesh.  The  great  train  stopped  and  vomited  forth 
its  horde  of  scurrying  humans. 

Elodie  caught  sight  of  him  and  rushed  and  threw 
herself  into  his  arms,  and  embraced  him  rapturously. 

"Oh,  my  Andre,  it  is  good  to  have  you  back. 
0  mon  petit  homme  —  how  I  have  been  longing  for 
this  moment.  Now  the  war  is  finished,  you  will  not 
leave  me  again  ever.  Et  te  voila  General  You  must 
be  proud,  eh?  But  your  uniform?  I  who  had  made 
certain  I  should  see  you  in  uniform." 

He  smiled  at  her  characteristic  pounce  on  externals. 

"I  no  longer  belong  to  the  Army,  my  little 
Elodie,"  he  replied,  walking  with  her,  his  porter  in 
front,  to  the  barrier. 

"  Mais  tu  es  toujours  General  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"I  keep  the  rank,"  said  Andrew. 

"And  the  uniform?  You  can  wear  it?  You  will 
put  it  on  sometimes  to  please  me?" 

They  drove  home  through  twilight  Paris,  her  arm 
passed  through  his,  while  she  chattered  gaily.  Was 
it  not  good  to  smell  Paris  again  after  London  with 
its  fogs  and  ugliness  and  raw  beefsteaks?  To-night 
she  would  give  him  such  a  dinner  as  he  had  never 
eaten  in  England  —  and  not  for  two  years.  Did  he 
realize  that  it  was  two  years  since  he  had  seen  her? 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  167 

"Mon  Dieu"  said  he,  "so  it  is." 

"And  you  are  pleased  to  have  me  again?" 

"Can  you  doubt  it?"  he  smiled. 

"Ah,  one  never  knows.  What  can't  a  man  do  in 
two  years?  Especially  when  he  becomes  a  high 
personage,  a  great  General  full  of  honours  and 
decorations." 

"The  gods  of  peace  have  arrived,  my  little 
Elodie,"  said  he  with  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "and 
the  little  half-gods  of  war  are  eclipsed.  If  we  go  to 
a  restaurant  there's  no  reason  why  the  waiter  with 
his  napkin  under  his  arm  shouldn't  be  an  ex-colonel 
of  Zouaves.  All  the  glory  of  the  war  has  ended,  my 
dear.  A  breath.  Phew!  Out  goes  the  candle." 

But  Elodie  would  have  none  of  this  pessimistic 
philosophy. 

"You  are  a  General  to  the  end  of  your  days." 

They  mounted  to  the  flat  in  the  Faubourg  Saint- 
Denis.  To  Andrew,  accustomed  of  late  months  to 
the  greater  spaciousness  of  English  homes,  it  seemed 
small  and  confined  and  close.  It  smelt  of  birds  — 
several  cages  of  which  occupied  a  side  of  the  salon. 
Instinctively  he  threw  open  a  window. 

Instinctively  also:  "The  courant  d'air!"  cried 
Elodie. 

"Just  for  a  minute,"  said  Andrew  —  and  added 
diplomatically,  "I  want  to  see  what  changes  there 
are  in  the  street." 

"It's  always  the  same,"  said  Elodie.  "I  will  go 
and  see  about  dinner." 

So  till  she  returned  he  kept  the  window  open  and 
looked  about  the  room.  It  was  neat  as  a  new  pin, 
redded-up  against  his  arrival.  His  books  had  been 
taken  from  their  cases  and  dusted;  the  wild  dis- 
placement of  volumes  that  should  have  gone  in 
series  betrayed  the  hand  of  the  zealous  though 
inexpert  librarian.  The  old  curtains  had  been 
cleaned,  the  antimacassars  over  the  backs  of  chairs 
and  sofa  had  been  freshly  washed,  the  floor  polished. 


168  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Not  a  greasy  novel  or  a  straggling  garment  defiled 
the  spotlessness  of  the  room,  which,  but  for  the  row 
of  birds  and  the  books,  looked  as  if  it  subserved  no 
human  purpose.  A  crazy  whatnot,  imitation  lac- 
quer and  bamboo,  the  only  piece  of  decorative 
furniture,  was  stacked  with  photographs  of  variety 
artists,  male  and  female,  in  all  kinds  of  stage  cos- 
tumes, with  sprawling  signatures  across,  the  collec- 
tion of  years  of  touring^ — all  scrupulously  dusted 
and  accurately  set  out.  The  few  cheap  prints  in 
maple  frames  that  adorned  the  walls  (always  askew, 
he  remembered)  had  been  adjusted  to  the  horizontal. 
On  the  chenille-covered  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  stood  a  vase  with  artificial  flowers.  The 
straight-backed  chairs  upholstered  in  yellow  and 
brown  silk  stood  close  sentry  under  the  prints,  in 
their  antimacassar  uniforms.  Two  yellow  and 
brown  arm-chairs  guarded  the  white  faience  stove. 
The  sofa  against  the  wall  frowned  sternly  at  the 
whatnot  on  the  opposite  side.  Andrew's  orderly 
soul  felt  aghast  at  this  mathematical  tidiness. 
Even  the  old  slovenly  chaos  was  better.  At  least 
it  expressed  something  human.  And  then  the  pic- 
ture of  that  other  room,  so  exquisite,  so  impreg- 
nated with  the  Far-away  Princess  spirit  of  its 
creator,  rose  up  before  him,  and  he  sighed  and 
rubbed  his  fingers  through  his  red  stubbly  hair, 
and  made  a  whimsical  grimace,  and  said,  "Oh 
Damn!"  And  Elodie  then  bursting  in,  with  a  proud 
"Isn't  it  pretty,  ton  petit  chez-toi!"  What  could 
he  do  but  smile,  and  assure  her  that  no  soldier  home 
from  the  wars  could  have  a  more  beautifully  regu- 
lated home? 

"And  you  have  looked  enough  at  the  street?" 

Andrew  shut  the  window. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THROUGH  one  of  the  little  ironies  of  fate,  my 
mission  at  the  Peace  Conference  ended  a  day 
or  two  after  Andrew's  arrival  in  Paris,  so  that 
when  he  called  at  my  hotel  I  had  already  returned 
to  London.  A  brief  note  from  him  a  day  or  two 
later  informed  me  of  his  visit  and  his  great  regret 
at  missing  me.  Of  his  plans  he  said  nothing.  He 
gave  as  his  address  "c/o  Cox's  Bank."  You  will 
remark  that  this  was  late  April,  and  I  did  not  re- 
ceive his  famous  manuscript  till  June.  Of  his 
private  history  I  knew  nothing,  save  his  beginnings 
in  the  Cirque  Rocambeau  and  his  identity  with  a 
professional  mountebank  known  as  Petit  Patou. 

Soon  afterwards  I  spent  a  week-end  with  the 
Verity-Stewarts.  Before  I  could  have  a  private 
word  with  Lady  Auriol,  whom  I  found  as  my  fellow- 
guest,  Evadne,  as  soon  as  she  had  finished  an  im- 
patient though  not  unsubstantial  tea,  hurried  me 
out  into  the  garden.  There  were  two  litters  of 
Sealyhams. 

Lady  Verity-Stewart  protested  mildly. 

"Uncle  Anthony  doesn't  want  to  see  puppies." 

"It's  the  only  thing  he's  interested  in  and  the 
only  thing  he  knows  anything  about,"  cried  Evadne. 
"And  he's  the  only  one  that's  able  to  pick  out  the 
duds.  Come  on." 

So  I  went.    Crossing  the  lawn,  she  took  my  arm. 

"We're  all  as  sick  as  dogs,"  she  remarked  con- 
fidentially. 

"Indeed?    Why?" 

"We  asked "  Note  the  modern  child.  Not 

"Papa"  or  "Mamma,"  as  a  well-conducted  little 
girl  of  the  Victorian  epoch  would  have  said,  but 

169 


170  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"we,"  ego  et  parentes  —  "we  asked,"  replied  Evadne, 
"  General  Lackaday  down.  And  crossing  our  letter 
came  one  from  Paris  telling  us  he  had  left  England 
for  good.  Isn't  it  rotten?" 

"The  General's  a  very  good  fellow,"  said  I,  "but 
I  didn't  know  he  was  a  flame  of  yours." 

"Oh,  you  stupid!"  cried  Evadne,  with  a  protest- 
ing tug  at  my  arm.  "It's  nothing  to  do  with  me. 
It's  Aunt  Auriol." 

"Oh?"  said  I. 

She  shook  her  fair  bobbed  head.  "As  if  you 
didn't  know!" 

"I'm  not  so  senile,"  said  I,  "as  not  to  grasp  your 
insinuation,  my  dear.  But  I  fail  to  see  what  busi- 
ness it  is  of  ours." 

"It's  a  family  affair — oh,  I  forgot,  you're  not 
real  family  —  only  adopted."  I  felt  humiliated. 
"Anyhow  you're  as  near  as  doesn't  matter."  I 
brightened  up  again.  "I've  heard  'em  talking  it 
over  —  when  they  thought  I  wasn't  listening. 
Father  and  mother  and  Charles.  They're  all  potty 
over  General  Lackaday.  And  so's  Aunt  Auriol. 
I  told  you  they  had  clicked  ages  ago." 

"Clicked?" 

"Yes.    Don't  you  know  English?" 

"To  my  sorrow,il  do.  They  clicked.  And  father 
and  mother  and  Charles  and  Aunt  Auriol  are  all 
potty." 

"And  so  am  I,"  she  declared,  "for  he's  a  dear. 
And  they  all  say  it's  time  for  Aunt  Auriol  to  settle 
down.  So  they  wanted  to  get  him  here  and  fix  him. 
Charles  says  he's  a  shy  bird " 

"But,"  I  interrupted,  "you're  talking  of  the  family. 
Your  Aunt  Auriol  has  a  father,  Lord  Mountshire." 

"He's  an  old  ass,"  said  Evadne. 

"He's  a  peer  of  the  realm,"  said  I  rebukingly, 
though  I  cordially  agreed  with  her. 

"He's  not  fit  to  be  General  Lackaday 's  ancient 
butler,"  she  retorted. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  171 

"Is  that  your  own?" 

"No.  It's  Charles's.  But  I  can  repeat  it  if  I 
like." 

"And  all  this  goes  to  prove "  said  I. 

"Well,  don't  you  see?  You  are  dense.  The  news 
that  the  General  had  gone  to  France  knocked  them 
all  silly.  Aunt  Auriol's  looking  rotten.  Charles 
says  she's  off  her  feed.  You  should  have  seen  her 
last  night  at  dinner,  when  they  were  talking  about 
him." 

"Again,  my  dear  Evadne,"  said  I,  opening  the 
gate  of  the  kitchen  garden  for  her  to  pass  through, 
"this  is  none  of  my  business." 

She  took  my  arm  again.  "It  doesn't  matter. 
But  oh,  darling  Uncle  Tony,  couldn't  we  fix  it  up?" 

"Fix  up  what?"  I  asked  aghast. 

"The  wedding,"  replied  this  amazing  young  per- 
son, looking  up  at  me.  so  that  I  had  only  a  vision  of 
earnest  grey  eyes,  and  a  foreshortened  snub  nose 
and  chin.  "He's  only  shy.  You  could  bring  him 
up  to  the  scratch  at  once. ' 

She  went  on  in  a  whirl  of  words  of  which  I  pre- 
serve but  a  confused  memory.  Of  course  it  was 
her  own  idea.  She  had  heard  her  mother  hint  that 
Anthony  Hylton  might  be  a  useful  man  to  have 
about  —  but  all  the  same  she  had  her  plan.  Why 
shouldn't  I  go  off  to  Paris  and  bring  him  back?  I 
gasped.  I  fought  for  air.  But  Evadne  hurried  me 
on,  talking  all  the  time.  She  was  dying  for  a  wed- 
ding. She  had  never  seen  one  in  her  life.  She  would 
be  a  bridesmaid.  She  described  her  costume.  And 
she  had  set  her  heart  on  a  wedding  present  —  the 
best  of  the  bunch  of  Sealyham  puppies.  Why, 
certainly  they  were  all  hers.  Tit  and  Tat,  from 
whom  the  rather  extensive  kennels  had  originally 
sprung,  were  her  own  private  property.  They  had 
been  given  to  her  when  she  was  six  years  old.  Tat 
had  died.  But  Tit.  I  knew  Tit?  Did  I  not?  No 
one  could  spend  an  hour  in  Mansfield  Court  with- 


172  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

out  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  ancient  thing 
on  the  hearthrug,  with  the  shape  of  a  woolly  lamb 
and  the  eye  of  a  hawk  and  the  smile  of  a  Court 
jester.  /  Besides,  I  had  known  him  since  he  was  a 
puppy.  I,  moi  qui  park,  had  been  the  donor  of  Tit 
and  Tat.  I  reminded  her.  I  was  a  stupid.  As  if 
she  didn't  know.  But  I  was  to  confirm  her  right 
to  dispose  of  the  pups.  I  confirmed  it  solemnly. 
So  we  hastened  to  the  stable  yard  and  inspected  the 
kennels,  where  the  two  mothers  lay  with  their 
slithery  tail-wagging  broods.  We  discussed  the 
points  of  each  little  beast  and  eventually  decided 
on  the  one  which  should  be  Evadne's  wedding 
present  to  General  Lackaday  and  Lady  Auriol 
Dayne. 

"Thanks  ever  so  much,  darling,"  said  Evadne. 
"You  are  so  helpful." 

I  returned  to  the  drawing-room  fairly  well  primed 
with  the  family  preoccupations,  so  that  when  Lady 
Verity-Stewart  carried  me  off  to  her  own  little  den 
on  the  pretext  of  showing  me  some  new  Bristol 
glass,  and  Sir  Julius  came  slinking  casually  in  her 
wake,  I  knew  what  to  expect.  They  led  up  to  the 
subject,  of  course,  very  diplomatically  —  not  rush- 
ing at  it  brutally  like  Evadne,  but  nothing  that  the 
child  said  did  they  omit  —  with  the  natural  excep- 
tion of  the  bridesmaid's  dress  and  the  wedding 
present.  And  they  added  little  more.  They  were 
greatly  concerned,  dear  elderly  folk,  about  Auriol. 
She  and  General  Lackaday  had  been  hand  in  glove 
for  months.  He  evidently  more  than  admired  her. 
Auriol,  said  Sir  Julius,  in  her  don't-care-a-dam-for- 
anybody  sort  of  way  made  no  pretence  of  disguising 
her  sentiments.  Any  fool  could  see  she  was  in  love 
with  the  man.  And  they  had  qffwhed  themselves 
together  all  over  the  place.  Other  women  could 
do  it  with  impunity  —  if  they  didn't  have  an  in- 
fatuated man  in  tow  at  a  restaurant,  they'd  be 
stared  at,  people  would  ask  whether  they  were 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  173 

for  a  nunnery  —  but  Auriol  was  differ- 
ent. Aphrodite  could  do  what  she  chose  and  no 
one  worried;  but  an  indiscretion  of  Artemis  set 
tongues  wagging.  It  was  high  time  for  something 
definite  to  happen.  And  now  the  only  thing  defi- 
nite was  Lackaday's  final  exodus  from  the  scene, 
and  Auriol's  inclination  to  go  off  and  bury  herself 
in  some  savage  land.  Lady  Verity-Stewart  thought 
Borneo.  They  were  puzzled.  General  Lackaday 
was  the  best  of  fellows  —  so  simple,  so  sincere  — 
such  a  damned  fine  soldier  —  such  a  gentle,  kindly 
creature  —  so  scurvily  treated  by  a  disgraceful  War 
Office  —  just  the  husband  for  Auriol  —  etcetera, 
etcetera  in  strophe  and  antistrophe  of  eulogy. 
h  All  this  was  by  way  of  beginning.  Then  came 
the  point  of  the  conclave.  It  was  obvious  that 
General  Lackaday  couldn't  have  trifled  with  Auriol's 
affections  and  thrown  her  off.  I  smiled  at  the  con- 
ception of  the  lank  and  earnest  Lackaday  in  the 
part  of  Don  Juan.  Besides,  they  added  sagely, 
Auriol  had  been  known  to  make  short  work  of 
philanderers.  It  could  only  be  a  question  of  some 
misunderstanding  that  might  easily  be  arranged  by 
an  intelligent  person  in  the  confidence  of  both 
parties.  That,  it  appeared,  was  where  I  came  in. 
I,  as  Evadne  had  said,  was  a  useful  man  to  have 
about. 

"Now,  my  dear  Anthony,"  said  Sir  Julius,  "can't 
you  do  something?" 

What  the  deuce  was  I  to  do?    But  first  I  asked: 

"What  does  Auriol  say  about  it?" 

They  hadn't  broached  the  subject.  They  were 
afraid.  I  knew  what  Auriol  was.  As  likely  as  not 
she  would  tell  them  to  go  to  the  devil  for  their 
impertinence. 

"And  she  wouldn't  be  far  wrong,"  said  I. 

"Of  course  it  seems  meddlesome,"  said  Sir  Julius, 
tugging  at  his  white  moustache,  "but  we're  fond  of 
Auriol.  I've  been  much  more  of  a  father  to  her 


174  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

than  that  damned  old  ass  Mountshire"  —  Evadne, 
again;  though  for  once  in  her  life  she  had  exercised 
restraint  —  "  and  I  hate  to  see  her  unhappy.  She's 
a  woman  who  ought  to  marry,  hang  it  all,  and  bring 
fine  children  into  the  world.  And  her  twenties 
won't  last  for  ever  —  to  put  it  mildly.  And  here 
she  is  in  love  with  a  fine  fellow  who's  in  love  with 
her  or  I'll  eat  my  hat,  and  —  well  —  don't  you  see 
what  I  mean?" 

Oh  yes.  I  saw  perfectly.  To  soothe  them,  I 
promised  to  play  the  high-class  Pandarus  to  the 
best  of  my  ability.  At  any  rate,  Lady  Auriol, 
having  taken  me  into  her  confidence  months  ago, 
couldn't  very  well  tell  me  to  go  to  the  devil,  and, 
if  she  did,  couldn't  maintain  the  mandate  with 
much  show  of  outraged  dignity. 

I  did  not  meet  her  till  dinner.  She  came  down  in 
a  sort  of  low  cut  red  and  bronze  frock  without  any 
sleeves  —  I  had  never  seen  so  much  of  her  before  — 
and  what  I  saw  was  exceedingly  beautiful.  A 
magnificent  creature,  with  muscular,  shapely  arms 
and  deep  bosom  and  back  like  a  Greek  statue  be- 
come dark  and  warm.  Her  auburn  hair  crowned 
her  strong  pleasant  face.  As  far  as  appearances 
went  I  could  trace  no  sign  of  the  love-lorn  maiden. 
Only  from  her  talk  did  I  diagnose  a  more  than  cus- 
tomary unrest.  The  war  was  over.  Hospitals  were 
closed.  Her  occupation  (like  Lackaday's)  was  gone. 
England  was  no  place  for  her.  It  was  divided  into 
two  social  kingdoms  separated  by  a  vast  gulf  — 
one  jazzing  and  feasting  and  otherwise  Sodom-and- 
Gomorrah-izing  its  life  away,  and  the  other  growl- 
ing, envious,  sinister,  with  the  Bolshevic  devil  in 
its  heart.  What  could  a  woman  with  brains  and 
energy  do?  The  Society  life  of  the  moment  made 
her  sick.  A  dance  to  Perdition.  The  middle  classes 
were  dancing,  too,  in  ape-like  imitation,  while  the 
tradesman  class  were  clinging  for  dear  life  on  to 
their  short  skirts,  with  legs  dangling  in  the  gulf. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  175 

On  the  other  side,  seething  masses  howling  worship 
of  the  Goddess  of  Unreason.  Gross  the  gulf — one 
would  metaphorically  be  torn  to  pieces.  Remain 
—  no  outlet  for  energy  but  playing  the  wild  Cassan- 
dra. Her  pessimism  was  Tartarean. 

"General  Lackaday,  the  last  time  I  saw  him, 
agreed  with  me  that  the  war  was  a  damned  sight 
better  than  this." 

It  was  the  first  tame  she  had  mentioned  him. 
Lady  Verity-Stewart  and  I  exchanged  glances. 

She  went  on.  Not  a  monologue.  We  all  made 
our  comments,  protests  and  what  not.  But  in  the 
theatre  phrase  we  merely  fed  her,  instinctively 
feeling  for  the  personal  note.  On  ordinary  occa- 
sions very  subtly  aware  of  such  tactics,  she 
seemed  now  to  ignore  them.  She  rose  to  every  fly. 
Public  life  for  women?  Parliament?  The  next 
election  would  result  in  a  Labour  Government. 
Women  would  stand  no  chance.  Labour  counted 
on  cajoling  the  woman's  vote.  But  it  would  ha\e 
no  truck  with  women  as  legislators.  If  there  was 
one  social  class  which  had  the  profpundest  contempt 
for  woman  as  an  intelligent  being  it  was  the  labour- 
ing  population. 

For  Heaven's  sake  remember,  I  am  only  giving 
you  Lady  Auriol's  views,  as  expressed  over  the 
dinner  table.  What  mine  are,  I  won't  say.  Any- 
how they  don't  amount  to  a  row  of  pins. 

Lady  Auriol  continued  her  Jeremiad.  Suppose 
she  did  stand  for  Parliament,  and  got  in  for  a  safe 
Conservative  constituency.  What  would  happen? 
She  would  be  swept  in  to  the  muddiest  and  most 
soul-destroying  game  on  God's  earth.  No,  my  dear 
friends,  no.  No  politics  for  her.  Well,  what  then? 
we  asked. 

"Didn't  you  say  something  about  —  what  was 
it,  dear  —  Borneo?"  asked  Lady  Verity-Stewart. 

"I  don't  care  where  it  is,  Aunt  Selina,"  cried 
Lady  Auriol.  "Anywhere  out  of  this  melting-pot 


176  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

of  civilization.  But  you  can't  get  anywhere.  There 
aren't  any  ships  to  take  you.  And  there's  nowhere 
worth  going  to.  The  whole  of  this  miserable  little 
earth  has  been  exploited." 

"Thibet  has  its  lonely  spots." 

"And  it's  polyandrous  —  so  a  woman  ought  to 
have  a  good  time — "  she  laughed.  "Thanks  for 
the  hint.  But  I'm  not  taking  any.  Seriously,  how- 
ever, as  you  all  seem  to  take  such  an  interest  in 
me,  whats  a  woman  like  me  to  do  in  this  welter? 
Oh,  give  me  the  good  old  war  again!" 

Lady  Verity-Stewart  lifted  horrified  hands.  Sir 
Julius  rebuked  her  unhumorously.  Lady  Auriol 
laughed  again  and  the  Jeremiad  petered  out. 

"She's  got  it  rather  badly,"  Charles  murmured 
to  me  when  the  ladies  had  left  the  dining-room. 

But  I  was  not  going  to  discuss  Lady  Auriol  with 
Charles.  I  grunted  and  sipped  my  port  and  told  a 
gratified  host  that  I  recognized  the  '81  Cockburn. 

Sir  Julius  and  Lady  Verity-Stewart  went  to  bed 
early  after  the  sacramental  game  of  bridge.  Charles, 
obeying  orders,  followed  soon  afterwards.  Lady 
Auriol  and  I  had  the  field  to  ourselves. 

"Well?"  said  she. 

"Well?"  said  I. 

"You  don't  suppose  these  subtle  diplomatists 
have  left  us  alone  to  discuss  Bolshevism  or  Infant 
Welfare?" 

There  was  the  ironical  gleam  in  her  eyes  and  twist 
in  her  lips  that  had  attracted  me  since  her  child- 
hood. I  have  always  liked  intelligent  women. 

"Have  they  been  badgering  you?" 

"Good  Lord,  no.  But  a  female  baby  in  a  pink 
sash  would  see  what  they're  driving  at.  Haven't 
they  been  discussing  me  and  Andrew  Lackaday?" 

"They  have,"  said  I,  "and  they're  perfect  dears. 
They've  built  up  a  fairy-tale  around  you  and  have 
taken  long  leases  in  it  and  are  terribly  anxious  that 
the  estate  shan't  be  put  into  liquidation." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  177 

"That's  rather  neat,"  she  said. 

"I  thought  so,  myself,"  said  I. 

Stretched  in  an  arm-chair  she  looked  for  some 
minutes  into  the  glow  of  the  wood  fire.  Then  she 
turned  her  head  quickly. 

"You  haven't  given  me  away?" 

"My  good  girl!"  I  protested,  "what  do  you  take 
me  for?" 

She  laughed.  "That's  all  right.  I  opened  out  to 
you  last  year  about  Andrew.  You  remember?  You 
were  very  sympathetic.  I  was  in  an  unholy  sort  of 
fog  about  myself  then.  I'm  in  clear  weather  now. 
I  know  my  own  mind.  He's  the  only  man  in  the 
world  for  me.  I  suppose  I've  made  it  obvious. 
Hence  the  solicitude  of  these  pet  lambs  —  and  your 
appointment  as  Investigator.  Well,  my  dear  Tony, 
what  do  they  want  to  know?" 

"They're  straining  their  dear  simple  ears  to  catch 
the  strain  of  wedding  bells  and  they  cam't  do  it. 
So  they're  worried." 

"  Well,  you  can  tell  them  not  to  worry  any  longer. 
There  aren't  going  to  be  any  wedding  bells.  They've 
made  sentimental  idiots  of  themselves.  General 
Lackaday  and  I  aren't  marrying  folks.  The  ques- 
tion hasn't  arisen.  We're  good  intimate  friends, 
nothing  more.  He's  no  more  in  love  with  me  than 
I  am  with  him.  Savvy?" 

I  savvied.    But 

"That's  for  the  pet  lambs,"  said  I.  "What  for 
me?" 

"I've  already  told  you." 

"And  that's  the  end  of  it?" 

"As  far  as  you  are  concerned  —  yes." 

"As  you  will,"  I  said. 

I  put  a  log  on  the  fire  and  took  up  a  book.  All 
this  was  none  of  my  business,  as  I  had  explained 
to  Evadne. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  not  interested  in  my  conversa- 
tion," she  remarked  after  a  while. 


178  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"You  gave  me  to  understand  that  it  was  over 
—  as  far  as  I  was  concerned." 

"Never  mind.     I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

I  laid  down  my  book  and  lit  a  cigar. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  I. 

It  was  then  that  she  told  me  of  her  last  interview 
with  Lackaday.  Remember  I  had  not  yet  read  his 
version. 

"It's  all  pretty  hopeless,"  she  concluded. 

For  myself  I  knew  nothing  of  the  reasons  that 
bade  him  adopt  the  attitude  of  the  Mysterious 
Unknown  —  except  his  sensitiveness  on  the  point 
of  his  profession.  He  would  rather  die  than  appear 
before  her  imagination  in  the  green  silk  tights  of 
Petit  Patou.  I  asked  tentatively  whether  he  had 
spoken  much  of  his  civilian  life. 

"Very  little.  Except  of  his  knowledge  of  Europe. 
He  has  travelled  a  great  deal.  But  of  his  occupa- 
tion, family  and  the  rest,  I  know  nothing.  Oh  yes, 
he  did  once  say  that  his  father  and  mother  died 
when  he  was  a  baby  and  that  he  had  no  kith  or  kin 
in  the  world.  If  he  had  thought  fit  to  tell  me  more 
he  would  have  done  so.  I,  of  course,  asked  no 
questions."  4 

"But  all  the  same,"  said  I,  "you're  dying  to  know 
the  word  of  the  enigma." 

She  laughed  scornfully.    "I  know  it,  my  friend." 

"  The  deuce  you  do ! "  said  I,  thinking  of  Petit  Patou 
and  wondering  how  she  had  guessed.  "What  is  it?" 

"A  woman  of  course." 

"Did  he  tell  you?"  I  asked,  startled,  for  that 
shed  a  new  light  on  the  matter. 

"No."  She  boomed  the  word  at  me.  "What 
on  earth  do  you  suppose  was  the  meaning  of  our 
talk  about  playing  the  game?" 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  I,  "if  it  comes  to  that, 
do  you  think  it  was  playing  the  game  for  him,  a 
married  man  with  possibly  a  string  of  children,  to 
come  down  here  and  make  love  to  you?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  179 

She  flared  up.  "He  never  made  love  to  me. 
You've  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing.  If  there  was 
any  love-making,  it  was  I  that  made  it.  Ninety 
per  cent  of  the  love-making  in  the  world  is  the  work 
of  women.  And  you  know  it,  although  you  pretend 
to  be  shocked.  And  I'm  not  ashamed  of  myself  in 
the  least.  As  soon  as  I  set  my  eyes  on  him  I  said 
'That's  the  man  I  want,'  and  I  soon  saw  that  I 
could  give  him  what  he  never  had  before  —  and  I 
kept  him  to  me,  so  that  I  could  give  it  him.  And 
I  gloried  in  it.  I  don't  care  whether  he  has  ten 
wives  or  twenty  children.  I'm  telling  you  because" 

—  she  started  up  and  looked  me  full  in  the  face  — 
"upon  my  word  I  don't  know  why  —  except  that 
you're  a  comfortable  sort  of  creature,  and  if  you 
know  everything  you'll  be  able  to  deal  with  the  pet 
lambs."    She  rose,  held  out  her  hand.    "You  must 
be  bored  stiff." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "I'm  vastly  interested 

—  and  honoured,  my  dear  Auriol.     But  tell  me. 
As  all  this  sad,  mad,  glad  affair  seems  to  have  come 
to  a  sudden  stop,  what  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied  with  a  half  laugh. 
"What  I  feel  like  doing  is  to  set  out  for  Hell  by 
the  most  adventurous  route." 

She  laughed  again,  shook  hands.  "Good  night, 
Tony."  And  she  passed  out  through  the  door  I 
held  open  for  her. 

I  finished  my  cigar  before  the  fire.  It  was  the 
most  unsatisfactory  romance  I  had  come  across  in 
a  not  inexperienced  career.  Was  it  the  green  silk 
tights  or  the  possible  woman  in  the  background 
that  restrained  the  gallant  General?  Suppose  it 
was  only  the  former?  Would  my  Lady  Auriol  jib 
at  them?  She  was  a  young  woman  with  a  majestic 
scorn  for  externals.  In  her  unexpectedness  she 
might  cry  "Motley's  the  only  wear'  and  raise  him 
ever  higher  in  his  mountebankic  path.  ...  I  was 
sorry  for  both  of  them.  They  were  two  such  out-of- 


180  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

the-way  human  beings  —  so  vivid,  so  real.  They 
seemed  to  have  a  preordained  right  to  each  other. 
He,  dry,  stern,  simple  stick  of  a  man  needed  the 
flame-like  quality  that  ran  through  her  physical 
magnificence.  She,  piercing  beneath  the  glamour 
of  his  soldierly  achievements,  found  in  him  the 
primitive  virility  she  could  fear  combined  with  the 
spiritual  helplessness  to  which  she  could  come  in 
her  full  womanly  and  maternal  aid.  To  her  he  was 
as  a  rock,  but  a  living  rock,  vitalized  by  a  myriad 
veins  of  sensitiveness.  To  him  —  well,  I  knew  my 
Auriol  —  and  could  quite  understand  what  Auriol 
in  love  could  be  to  any  man.  Auriol  out  of  love 
(and  in  her  right  mind)  had  always  been  good 
enough  for  me. 

So  I  mused  for  a  considerable  time.  Then,  be- 
coming conscious  of  the  flatness,  stateness  and  un- 
profitableness of  it  all,  as  far  as  my  elderly  selfish- 
ness was  concerned,  I  threw  my  extinct  cigar  end 
into  the  fire,  and  thanking  God  that  I  had  come  to 
an  age  when  all  this  storm  and  fuss  over  a  creature 
of  the  opposite  sex  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  and 
yet  with  an  unregenerate  pang  of  regret  for  mani- 
fold what-might-have-beens,  I  put  out  the  lights 
and  went  to  bed. 

The  next  day  I  succeeded  by  hook  or  by  crook 
in  guiding  the  pet  Iambs,  Evadne  included,  in  the 
way  they  should  go.  I  reported  progress  to  Lady 
Auriol. 

"Good  dog,"  she  said. 

I  returned  to  London  on  Monday  morning. 
When  next  I  heard  of  her,  she  was,  I  am  thankful 
to  say,  not  on  the  adventurous  path  to  the  brim- 
stone objective  of  her  predilection,  but  was  fooling 
about,  all  by  herself,  in  a  five-ton  yacht,  somewhere 
around  the  Outer  Hebrides,  in  the  foulest  of  weather. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth  I  was  the  victim  of  a 
hopeless  passion  and  meditated  suicide.  A  seafar- 
ing friend  of  mine  suggested  my  accompanying  him 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  181 

on  his  cargo  steamer  from  the  Port  of  London  to 
Bordeaux.  It  was  blazing  summer.  But  I  was 
appallingly  sea-sick  all  the  way,  and  when  I  set  foot 
on  land  I  was  cleansed  of  all  human  emotion  save 
that  of  utter  thankfulness  that  I  existed  as  an 
entity  with  an  un-queasy  stomach.  I  was  cured 
for  good  and  all. 

But  a  five-ton  yacht  off  the  Outer  Hebrides  in 
bleak  tempests  —  No,  it  was  too  heroic.  Even  my 
dear  old  friend  Burton  for  all  his  wit  and  imagina- 
tion had  never  devised  such  a  remedia  amoris,  such 
a  remedy  for  Love  Melancholy. 

And  then  came  June  and  with  it  the  manuscript 
and  all  the  flood  of  information  about  the  Agence 
Moignon  and  Bakkus  and  Petit  Patou  and  Prepim- 
pin  and  Elodie  and  various  other  things  that  I  have 
yet  to  set  down. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WHILE  Lady  Auriol  Dayne  was  rocking  about 
the  Outer  Hebrides,  we  find  Andrew  Lacka- 
day  in  Paris  confronted  with  the  grim  neces- 
sity of  earning  a  livelihood.  His  pre-war  savings 
had  amounted  to  no  fortune,  and  in  spite  of  Elodie's 
economy  and  occasional  earnings  with  her  birds, 
they  were  well-nigh  spent.  The  dearness  of  every- 
thing! Elodie  wrung  her  hands.  Where  once  you 
had  change  out  of  a  franc,  now  you  had  none  out 
of  a  five-franc  note.  He  could  still  carry  on  com- 
fortably for  a  year,  but  that  woukTbe  the  end  of  it. 

When  he  propounded  the  financial  situation, 
Elodie  did  not  understand. 

"I  must  work,"  said  he. 

"But  Generals  don't  work,"  she  protested  incredu- 
lously. 

Even  the  war  had  developed  little  of  theTMar- 
seilles  gamine's  conceptions  of  life.  A  General  — 
she  knew  no  grades  —  a  modest  Brigadier  ranking 
second  only  to  a  Field  Marshal  —  was  a  General. 
He  commanded  an  army.  A  military  demigod 
invested  with  a  glamour  and  glory  which,  ipso  facto, 
of  its  own  essence,  provided  mm  with  ample  wealth. 
And  once  a  General,  always  a  General.  The  mere 
fact  of  no  longer  being  employed  in  the  command  of 
armies  did  not  *  matter.  The  rank  remained  and 
with  the  rank  the  golden  stream  to  maintain  it. 
According  to  popular  legend  the  Oriental  ascetic  who 
concentrates  his  gaze  on  the  centre  of  his  body  and 
his  thoughts  on  the  syllable  "Om"  arrives  at  a  pecu- 
liar mental  condition.  So  the  magic  word  on  which 
she  had  so  long  meditated,  had  its  hypnotic  effect 
on  Elodie. 

182 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  183 

And  when  he  had  patiently  explained  — 
"They   give   you   nothing   at   all   for   being   a 
General?"  she  almost  screamed. 
"Nothing  at  all,"  said  Andrew. 
"Then  what's  the  good  of  being  a  General?" 
"None  that  I  can  see,"  he  replied  with  his  grim 
smile. 

Elodie's  illusions  fell  clattering  round  about  her 
ears.  Not  her  illusions  as  to  Generals,  but  her  illu- 
sions as  to  Andrew  and  British  military  prestige. 
It  was  a  strange  army  that  no  longer  acknowledged 
its  high  commanders  —  a  strange  country  that 
could  scrap  them.  Were  British  Generals  real,  like 
French  Generals,  Lyautey  and  Manoury  and  Foch 
before  he  became  Marechal?  She  was  bitterly  dis- 
appointed. She  had  lived  for  nearly  a  year  in 
Ajidrew's  glory.  Now  there  seemed  to  be  no  shine 
in  it  whatever.  He  wore  no  uniform.  He  received 
no  pay.  He  was  a  mere  civilian.  He  had  to  work 
for  his  living  like  any  demobilized  poilu  who  re- 
turned to  his  counter  or  his  conductor's  step  on  the 
tramway.  And  she  had  made  such  a  flourish  among 
all  her  acquaintance  over  son  mari  le  general.  She 
went  off  by  herself  and  wept. 

The  cook  whom  she  had  engaged,  coming  to  lay 
the  cloth  in  the  tiny  dining-room  found  her  sobbing 
with  her  arms  on  the  table.  What  was  the  matter 
with  Madame? 

"  Ah,  ma  pauvre"  Ernestine,  je  suis  bien  maUieureuse." 
Ernestine  could  think  of  only  one  cause  for  a 
lady's  unhappiness.  Had  Monsieur  le  General  then 
been  making  her  infidelities?  All  allowances  should 
be  made  for  the  war.  On  every  side  she  had  heard 
tales  of  the  effects  of  such  long  separations.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  she  had  heard  of  many  reconcilia- 
tions. Apply  a  little  goodwill  —  that  was  all. 
Monsieur  le  General  was  a  man,  comme  tout  le  monde. 
She  was  certain  that  the  object  of  his  warrior  fancy 
was  not  worth  Madame  —  and  he  would  quickly 


184  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

realize  the  fact.  She  only  had  to  make  much  of 
him  and  give  him  everything  he  liked  to  eat.  As 
soon  as  the  stream  of  words  ceased  Elodie  vehe- 
mently denounced  the  disgusting  state  of  her  mind. 
She  must  have  a  foul  character  to  think  such  things. 
She  bade  her  haughtily  to  mind  her  own  business. 
Why  then,  asked  the  outraged  Ernestine,  did 
Madame  declare  she  was  miserable?  To  invite 
sympathy  and  then  reject  it  did  not  argue  a  fine 
character  on  the  part  of  Madame.  AJso  when  a 
woman  sits  down  and  weeps  like  a  cow,  mon  Dieu, 
there  must  be  a  reason.  Perhaps  if  Monsieur  was 
not  at  fault,  then 

"I  order  you  to  be  silent,"  stormed  Elodie,  inter- 
rupting the  intolerable  suggestion.  "My  reasons 
you  couldn't  possibly  understand.  Get  on  with 
your  work  and  set  the  table." 

She  made  a  dignified  exit  and  returned  to  the 
salon  where  Andrew  was  writing. 

"Ah,  these  servants  —  since  the  war!  The  inso- 
lence of  them!" 

"What  have  they  been  doing  now?"  he  asked 
sympathetically. 

She  would  not  say.  Why  worry  him  with  such 
vulgarities?  But  the  housekeeper's  life,  these  days, 
was  not  an  easy  one.  "Tie/is,"  she  cried,  with  a 
swift  resolve,  "I'll  tell  you  all.  What  you  said  about 
yourself,  a  general  only  in  name,  rejected  and  cast 
on  the  world  without  money  made  me  very  un- 
happy. I  didn't  want  you  to  see  me  cry.  So  I 
went  into  the  salle  a  manger " 

And  then  a  dramatic  reproduction  of  the  scene. 
The  insolence  of  the  woman!  Andrew  rose  and 
drew  out  his  pocket-book. 

"She  shall  go  at  once.    What's  her  wages?" 

But  Elodie  looked  at  him  aghast.  What?  Dis- 
miss Ernestine?  He  must  be  mad.  Ernestine,  a 
treasure  dropped  from  Heaven?  Didn't  he  know 
that  servants  did  not  grow  like  the  leaves  on  the 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  1S5 

trees  in  the  Champs  Ely  sees?  And  cooks  —  they 
were  worth  their  weight  in  gold.  In  the  army  he 
could  say  to  an  orderly  "Fiche-moi  le camp,"  because 
there  were  plenty  of  others.  But  in  civil  life  —  no. 
She  forbade  him  to  interfere  in  domestic  arrange- 
ments, the  nice  conduct  of  which  she  had  proved 
herself  perfectly  capable  of  determining.  And 
then,  in  her  queer,  twisted  logic,  she  said,  clutching 
the  lapels  of  his  coat  and  looking  up  into  his  face: 

"And  it's  not  true  what  she  said?  You  have 
never  made  me  infidelities?" 

He  passed  his  delicate  hand  over  her  forehead, 
and  smiled  somewhat  wearily. 

"You  may  be  sure,  my  dear,  I  have  been  faithful 
to  you." 

She  glanced  away  from  him,  somewhat  abashed. 
Now  and  then  his  big  simplicity  frightened  her. 
She  became  dimly  aware  that  the  report  of  the 
cook's  chatter  had  offended  the  never  comprehended 
delicacies  of  his  soul.  She  murmured: 

"Jete  demande  bien  pardon,  Andre." 

"There's  no  reason  for  that,  my  dear,"  said  he. 

She  went  over  to  her  birds.  Andrew  resumed 
his  writing.  But  after  a  minute  or  two  his  pen 
hung  idle  in  his  hand.  Yes.  He  had  spoken  truly. 
He  had  been  faithful  to  her  in  that  he  had  fled  from 
divine  temptation.  For  her  sake  he  had  put  the 
other  woman  and  the  glory  that  she  signified  out 
of  his  life.  All  through  the  delicious  intercourse, 
Elodie  had  hung  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  a 
dead-weight,  maybe,  but  one  which  he  could  not 
in  honour  or  common  humanity  cut  off.  For 
Elodie's  sake  he  had  held  himself  in  stern  restraint, 
had  uttered  no  word  that  might  be  interpreted  as 
that  of  a  lover.  As  far  as  Lady  Auriol  Dayne 
knew,  as  far  as  anyone  on  this  earth  knew,  his 
feelings  towards  her  were  nothing  more  than  those 
of  a  devoted  and  grateful  friend.  So  does  the  well- 
intentioned  ostrich,  you  may  say,  bury  its  head 


186  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

and  imagine  itself  invisible.  But  the  ostrich  is 
desperately  sincere  —  and  so  was  Andrew. 

Presently  he  turned. 

"If  that  woman  says  such  vulgarities  again,  she 
must  go  at  once." 

"I  shall  see  that  she  has  no  opportunity,"  said 
Elodie. 

For  a  time  Andrew  sought  in  France  that  which 
he  had  failed  to  find  in  England;  but  with  even  less 
chance  of  success.  The  gates  to  employment  in 
England  had  been  crowded  with  demobilized  officers. 
Only  the  fortunate,  the  young  content  with  modest 
beginnings,  those  with  money  enough  to  start  new 
avocations,  had  pushed  through.  These  had  been 
adventurers  like  himself.  The  others  had  returned 
to  the  office  or  counting-house  or  broad  acres  from 
which  they  had  sprung.  In  France  he  found  no 
employment  at  all;  the  gates  round  which  the  de- 
mobilized wistfully  gathered,  led  no  whither.  As 
at  the  War  Office,  so  at  military  head-quarters  in 
Paris.  Brass-hatted  friends  wrung  him  warmly  by 
the  hand,  condoled  with  his  lot,  and  genially  gave 
him  to  understand  that  he  stood  not  a  dog's  chance 
of  getting  in  anywhere.  Why  hadn't  he  worried 
the  people  at  home  for  a  foreign  billet?  There 
were  plenty  going,  but  as  to  their  nature  they  con- 
fessed vagueness.  He  had  put  in  for  several,  said 
he,  but  had  always  been  turned  down.  The  friends 
shook  their  heads.  In  Paris  nothing  doing.  Andrew 
walked  away  sadly.  Perhaps  a  spirit  proof  against 
rebuffs,  a  thick-skinned  persistence,  might  have 
eventually  prevailed  in  London  to  set  him  on  some 
career  in  the  social  reconstruction  of  the  world. 
His  record  stood,  and  needed  only  unblushing 
flaunting  before  the  eyes  of  Authority  for  it  to  be 
recognized.  But  Andrew  Lackaday,  proud  and 
sensitive,  was  a  poor  seeker  after  favour.  All  his 
promotion  and  his  honour  had  come  unsought.  He 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  187 

had  hated  the  braggadocio  of  the  rainbow  row  of 
ribbons  on  his  khaki  tunic,  which  Army  discipline 
alone  forced  him  to  wear.  It  was  Elodie,  too,  who 
had  fixed  into  his  buttonholes  the  little  red  rosette 
of  the  Officer  of  the  Legion.  That  at  least  he  could 
do  for  her.  .  .  .  Success,  such  as  it  was,  before  the 
war,  he  had  attained  he  knew  not  how.  The  big 
drum  of  the  showman  had  ever  been  an  engine  of 
abhorrence.  Others  had  put  him  on  the  track  of 
things,  Elodie,  Bakkus.  .  .  .  He  had  sternly  sup- 
pressed vulgarity  in  posters.  He  had  never  intrigued 
like  most  of  his  craft  for  press  advertisement.  Over 
and  over  again  had  Bakkus  said: 

"Raise  a  thousand  or  two  and  give  it  to  me  or 
Moignon  to  play  with  and  we'll  boom  you  into  all 
the  capitals  of  the  earth.  There's  a  fortune  in  you." 

But  Andrew,  to  whom  publicity  was  the  essence 
of  his  calling,  would  have  none  of  it.  He  did  his 
work  and  conducted  his  life  in  his  own  way,  earnest 
and  efficient. 

In  the  war,  of  course,  he  found  his  real  vocation. 
But  he  passed  out  of  the  war  as  unknown  to  the 
general  public  as  any  elderly  Tommy  in  a  Labour 
battalion.  Never  a  photograph  of  him  had  ap- 
peared in  the  illustrated  papers.  The  head  of  a 
great  Government  department,  to  whom  Lady 
Auriol  had  mentioned  his  name,  had  never  heard 
of  it.  And  when  she  suggested  that  the  State  should 
hasten  to  secure  the  services  of  such  men,  he  had 
replied  easily: 

"Men  of  his  distinction  are  as  thick  as  black- 
berries. That's  how  we  won  the  war." 

Unknown  to  Lackaday  she  had  tried  to  see  what 
influence  she  could  command.  Socially,  as  the 
rather  wild-headed  daughter  of  an  impoverished 
and  obscure  Earl,  she  could  do  but  little.  She  too 
was  a  poor  intriguer.  She  could  only  demand  with 
blatant  vividness.  Once  on  a  flying  visit  to  Lord 
Mountshire,  she  tried  to  interest  him  in  the  man 


188  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

whom,  to  her  indignation,  he  persisted  in  styling 
her  protege.  He  still,  she  urged,  had  friends  in 
high  places,  even  in  the  dreadful  Government  at 
which  he  railed. 

"Never  heard  of  the  man,"  he  growled.  "Lacka- 

day  —  Lackaday "  he  shook  his  white  head. 

"Who  was  his  father?" 

She  confessed  that  she  didn't  know.  He  was 
alone  in  the  iworld.  He  had  sprung  from  Nowhere. 
The  old  Earl  refused  to  take  any  interest  in  him. 
Such  fellows  always  fell  on  their  feet.  Besides,  he 
had  tried  to  put  in  a  word  for  young  Ponsonby  — 
and  had  got  snubbed  for  his  pains.  He  wasn't 
going  to  interfere  any  more. 

She  learned  that  the  appointment  of  a  soldier 
would  be  made  to  a  vacant  colonial  governorship. 
A  certain  general's  recommendation  would  carry 
weight.  She  passed  the  information  on  to  Andrew. 
This  she  could  do  without  offending  his  pride. 

"Very  sorry,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  General. 
"You're  the  very  man  for  the  job.  But  you  know 
what  these  Colonial  office  people  are.  They  will 
have  an  old  regular." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  they  appointed  another 
Brigadier  who  had  started  the  war  with  a  new 
Yeomanry  commission,  a  member  of  a  well-known 
family  with  a  wife  who  had  seen  to  it  that  neither 
his  light  nor  hers  should  be  hidden  under  a  bushel. 

In  the  frantic  scramble  for  place,  the  inexperi- 
enced in  the  methods  of  the  scrum  were  as  much 
left  out  in  the  cold  as  a  timid  old  maid  at  what 
Americans  call  a  bargain  counter.  He  stood  lost 
behind  the  throng  and  his  only  adviser  Lady  Auriol 
stood  by  his  side  in  similar  noble  bewilderment. 

On  his  appointment  to  a  Brigade,  Bakkus  had 
written: 

"I'm  almost  tempted  to  make  your  fortune  in 
spite  of  yourself.  What  a  sensation!  What  head- 
lines! 'Famous  Variety  Artist  becomes  a  General.' 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  189 

Companion  pictures  in  the  Daily  Mail,  Petit  Patou 
and  Brigadier-General  Lackaday.  Everybody  who 
had  heard  of  Petit  Patou  would  be  mad  to  hear  of 
General  Lackaday,  and  all  who  had  heard  of  soldier 
Andrew  would  be  crazy  to  know  about  Petit  Patou. 
You'd  wake  up  in  the  morning  like  Byron  and  find 
yourself  famous.  You'd  be  the  darling  hero  of  the 
British  Empire.  But  you  always  were  a  wooden- 
headed  idiot.  ..." 

To  which  Andrew  had  replied  in  raging  fury,  to 
the  vast  entertainment  of  Horatio  Bakkus. 

All  of  this  to  show  that,  notwithstanding  his 
supreme  qualities  of  personal  courage,  command 
and  military  intuition,  Andrew  Lackaday  as  a 
would-be  soldier  of  fortune  proved  a  complete 
failure.  For  him,  as  he  presented  himself,  the  tired 
world,  in  its  nebulous  schemes  of  reconstruction, 
had  no  place. 

Every  day,  when  he  got  home,  Elodie  would  ask: 

"Eh  bien?    Have  you  found  anything?" 

And  he  would  say,  gaunt  and  worried,  but  smil- 
ing: "Not  yet." 

As  the  days  passed  her  voice  grew  sharper,  until 
it  seemed  to  carry  the  reproach  of  the  wife  of  the 
labourer  out  of  work.  But  she  never  pressed  him 
further.  She  knew  his  moods  and  his  queer  silences 
and  the  inadvisability  of  forcing  his  confidence.  In 
spite  of  her  disappointment  and  disillusion,  some 
of  the  glamour  still  invested  him.  A  man  of  mystery, 
inspiring  a  certain  awe,  he  frightened  her  a  little. 
A  No  Man's  Land,  unknown,  terrifying,  on  which 
she  dared  not  venture  a  foot,  lay  between  them. 
He  was  the  kind  and  courteous  ghost  of  the  Sergeant 
and  the  Major  with  whom  she  had  made  high  festi- 
val during  the  war. 

At  last,  one  afternoon,  he  cast  the  bomb  calmly 
at  her  feet. 

"I've  just  been  to  see  Moignon,"  said  he. 

"Eh  bien?" 


190  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"He  says  there  will  be  no  difficulty." 

She  turned  on  him  her  coarse  puzzled  face.  "  No 
difficulty  in  what?" 

"In  going  back  to  the  stage." 

She  sank  upon  the  yellow  and  brown  striped  sofa 
by  the  wall  and  regarded  him  open-mouthed. 

"Twrfis?" 

"  I  must  do  like  all  other  demobilized  men  —  return 
to  my  trade." 

Elodie  nearly  fainted. 

For  months  the  prospect  had  hung  over  them 
like  a  doom;  ever  since  the  brigade  which  he  com- 
manded in  England  had  dissolved  through  de- 
mobilization, and  he,  left  in  the  air,  had  applied 
disastrously  to  the  War  Office  for  further  employ- 
ment. He  had  seen  others,  almost  his  equal  in 
rank,  swept  relentlessly  back  to  their  old  uninspir- 
ing avocations.  A  Bayard  of  a  Colonel  of  a  glorious 
battalion  of  a  famous  regiment,  a  fellow  with  decora- 
tions barred  two  or  three  times  over,  was  now 
cooped  up  in  his  solicitor's  office  in  Lothbury,  E.G., 
breaking  his  heart  over  the  pettifoggery  of  con- 
veyances. A  gallant  boy,  adjutant  at  twenty-two 
in  the  company  of  which  he  was  captain,  a  V.C. 
and  God  knows  what  else  besides,  was  back  again 
in  the  close  atmosphere  of  the  junior  department  of 
a  Public  School.  One  of  his  old  seconds  in  com- 
mand was  resuming  his  awful  frock-coated  walk 
down  the  aisles  of  a  suburban  drapery  store.  The 
flabby,  soulless  octopus  of  civil  life  reached  out  its 
tentacles  and  dragged  all  these  heroic  creatures 
into  its  maw  of  oblivion.  Then  another,  a  dis- 
tinguished actor,  and  a  more  distinguished  soldier, 
a  man  with  a  legendary  record  of  fearlessness,  had 
sloughed  his  armour  and  returned  to  the  theatre. 
That,  thought  he,  was  his  own  case.  But  no.  The 
actor  took  up  the  high  place  of  histrionic  fame 
which  he  had  abandoned.  He  was  the  exponent  of 
a  great  art.  The  dual  supremacy  brought  the  public 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  191 

to  his  feet.  His  appearance  was  the  triumph  both 
of  the  artist  and  the  soldier.  No.  He,  Lackaday, 
held  no  such  position.  He  recalled  his  first  talk 
with  Bakkus,  in  which  he  had  insisted  that  his 
mountebanking  was  an  art,  and  with  his  hard- 
gained  knowledge  of  life  rejected  the  sophistry. 
To  hold  an  audience  spell-bound  by  the  interpreta- 
tion of  great  human  emotion  was  a  different  matter 
from  making  a  zany  of  oneself  and,  upside  down, 
playing  a  one-stringed  fiddle  behind  one's  head,  and 
uttering  degraded  sounds  through  painted  grinning 
lips  in  order  to  appeal  to  the  inane  sense  of  humour 
of  the  grocer  and  his  wife.  No.  There  was  all  the 
difference  in  the  world.  The  comparison  filled  him 
less  with  consolation  than  with  despair.  The  actor, 
mocking  the  octopus  below,  had  calmly  stepped 
from  one  rock  pinnacle  to  another.  He  himself, 
Andrew  Lackaday,  in  the  depths,  felt  the  ir- 
resistible grip  of  the  horror  twining  round  his 
middle. 

Put  him  in  the  midst  of  a  seething  mass  of  sol- 
diery, he  could  command,  straighten  out  chaos  into 
mechanical  perfection  of  order,  guide  willing  men 
unquestioned  into  the  jaws  of  Hell;  put  him  on 
the  stage  of  a  music-hall  and  he  could  keep  six 
plates  in  the  air  at  a  time.  Outside  these  two 
spheres  he  could,  as  far  as  the  world  would  try 
him,  do  nothing.  He  had  to  live.  He  was  young, 
under  forty.  The  sap  of  life  still  ran  rich  in  his 
veins.  And  not  only  must  he  live,  but  the  woman 
bound  to  him  by  a  hundred  ties,  the  woman  woven 
by  an  almost  superstitious  weft  into  his  early  career, 
the  woman  whose  impeccable  loyalty  as  professional 
partner  had  enabled  him  to  make  his  tiny  fortune, 
the  woman  whose  faithful  affection  had  persisted 
through  the  long  years  of  the  war's  enforced  neglect, 
the  woman  who  without  his  support  —  unthink- 
able idea  —  would  perish  from  inanition  —  he  knew 
her  —  Elodie  must  live,  in  the  comfort  and  freedom 


192  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

from  anxiety  to  which  the  years  of  unquestioning 
dependence  had  accustomed  her.  Gap  and  bells 
again;  there  was  no  other  way  out. 

After  all,  perhaps  it  was  the  best  and  most  honest. 
Even  if  he  nad  found  a  semi-military  or  adminis- 
trative career  abroad,  what  would  become  of  Eiodie? 
Not  in  a  material  sense,  of  course.  The  same  pro- 
vision would  be  made  for  her  welfare  as  during  the 
last  five  years.  But  the  abnormal  state  of  war  had 
made  normal  their  separation.  In  altered  circum- 
stances would  she  not  have  the  right  to  cry  out 
against  his  absence?  Would  she  not  be  justified  in 
the  eyes  of  every  right-thinking  man?  Yet  the 
very  conditions  of  such  an  appointment  would  pre- 
vent her  accompanying  him.  The  problem  had 
appeared  insoluble.  Desperately  he  had  put  off  the 
solution  till  the  crisis  should  come.  But  he  had  felt 
unhappy,  shrinking  from  the  possibility  of  base 
action.  The  thought  of  Eiodie  had  often  paralysed 
his  energy  in  seeking  work.  Now,  however,  he 
could  face  the  world  with  a  clear  conscience.  He 
had  cut  himself  adrift  from  Lady  Auriol  and  her 
world.  Fate  linked  him  for  ever  to  Eiodie.  All 
that  remained  was  to  hide  his  honours  and  his  name 
under  the  cloak  of  Petit  Patou. 

It  took  him  some  time  to  convince  Eiodie  of  the 
necessity  of  returning  to  the  old  life.  She  repeated 
her  cry  that  Generals  do  not  perform  on  the  music- 
hall  stage.  The  decision  outraged  her  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things.  She  yielded  as  to  an  irresistible 
and  unreasoning  force. 

"And  I  then?  Must  I  tour  with  you,  as  before?" 
she  asked  in  dismay,  for  she  was  conscious  of  in- 
creased coarseness  of  body  and  sluggishness  of 
habit. 

He  frowned.  "It  is  true  I  might  find  another 
assistant." 

But  she  quickly  interrupted  the  implied  reproach. 
She  could  not  fail  him  in  her  duty. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  193 

"No,  no,  I  will  go.  But  you  will  have  to  teach 
me  all  over  again.  I  only  asked  for  information." 

"We'll  begin  rehearsals  then  as  soon  as  possible," 
he  replied  with  a  smile. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Bakkus,  who  had  been 
absent  from  Paris,  entered  the  salon,  with  his  usual 
unceremoniousness,  and  beheld  an  odd  spectacle. 
The  prim  chairs  had  been  piled  on  the  couch  by  the 
wall,  the  table  pushed  into  a  corner,  and  on  the 
vacant  space,  Elodie,  in  her  old  dancer's  practising 
kit,  bodice  and  knickerbockers,  once  loose  but  now 
skin  tight  to  grotesqueness,  and  Andrew  in  under 
vest  and  old  grey  flannels,  were  perspiringly  engaged 
with  pith  bafls  in  the  elementary  art  of  the  juggler. 
Elodie,  on  beholding  him,  clutched  a  bursting 
corsage  with  both  hands,  uttered  a  little  squeak 
and  bolted  like  an  overfed  rabbit.  Bakkus  laughed 
out  loud. 

"What  the  devil ?  Is  this  the  relaxation  of 

the  great  or  the  aberrations  of  the  asylum?" 

Andrew  grinned  and  shook  hands.  "My  dear 
old  chap.  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  back.  Sit 
down."  He  shifted  the  table  which  blocked  the  way 
to  the  two  arm-chairs  by  the  stove.  "Elodie  and 
I  are  getting  into  training  for  the  next  campaign." 
He  mopped  his  forehead,  wiped  his  hands  and,  with 
the  old  acrobat  instinct,  jerked  the  handkerchief 
across  the  room.  "You're  looking  very  well,"  said  he. 

"I'm  splendid,"  said  Bakkus. 

The  singer  indeed  had  a  curiously  prosperous 
and  distinguished  appearance,  due  not  only  to  a 
new  brown  suit  and  clean  linen  and  well-fitting 
boots,  but  also  to  a  sleekness  of  face  and  person 
which  suggested  comfortable  living.  His  hair,  now 
quite  white,  brushed  back  over  the  forehead,  was 
neatly  trimmed.'  His  sallow  cheeks  had  lost  their 
gaunt  hollows,  his  dark  eyes,  though  preserving 
then-  ironical  glitter,  had  lost  the  hunger-lit  gleam 
of  wolfishness. 


194  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"Have  you  signed  a  Caruso  contract  for  Covent 
Garden?"  laughed  Andrew. 

"  I've  done  better.  At  Covent  Garden  you've  got 
to  work  like  the  devil  for  your  money.  I've  made 
a  contract  with  my  family  —  no  work  at  all.  Agree- 
ment—  just  to  bury  the  hatchet.  Theophilus  — 
that's  the  Archdeacon  —  performed  the  Funeral 
Service.  He  has  had  a  stroke,  poor  chap.  They 
sent  for  me." 

"Elodie  told  me,"  said  Andrew. 

"He  has  been  very  good  to  me  during  the  war. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  been  reduced  to  picking 
up  cigar  ends  with  a  pointed  stick  on  the  Boule- 
vards—  and  a  damn  precarious  livelihood  too, 
considering  the  shortage  of  tobacco  in  this  benighted 
country.  He  took  it  into  his  venerable  head  that 
he  was  going  to  die  and  desired  to  see  me.  Voltaire 
remorse  on  his  death-bed,  you  know." 

"I  fail  to  follow,"  said  the  literal  Andrew. 

"All  his  Me  he  had  lived  an  unbeliever  in  ME. 
Now  your  military  intelligence  grasps  it.  My 
brother  Ronald,  the  runner  of  the  Pawnee  Indian, 
head-flattening  system  of  education,  and  his  wife, 
especially  his  wife,  the  daughter  of  a  lay  brother  of 
a  bishop  who  has  got  a  baronetcy  for  making  an 
enormous  fortune  out  of  the  war,  wouldn't  have  me 
at  any  price.  But  Theophilus  must  have  muttered 
some  incantation  which  frightened  them,  so  they 
surrendered.  Poor  old  Theophilus  and  I  had  a 
touching  meeting.  He's  about  as  lonely  a  thing 
as  you  could  wish  to  meet.  He  married  an  Ameri- 
can heiress,  who  died  about  eight  years  ago,  and 
he's  as  rich  as  Croesus.  We're  bosom  friends  now. 
As  for  Mrs.  Ronald  I  sang  her  songs  of  Araby  in- 
cluding Gounod's  'Ave  Maria'  with  lots  of  tremolo 
and  convinced  her  that  I'm  a  saintly  personage. 
It's  my  proud  boast  that,  on  my  account,  Ronald 
and  herself  never  spoke  for  three  days.  I  spent  a 
month  in  the  wilds  of  Westmorland  with  them, 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  195 

and  as  soon  as  Theophilus  got  on  the  mend  —  he's 
already  performing  semi-Archidiaconal  functions  — 
I  put  my  hands  over  my  eyes  and  fled.  My  God, 
what  a  crowd!  Give  me  a  drink.  I've  got  four 
weeks'  arrears  to  make  up." 

Andrew  went  into  the  salle  a  manger  and  returned 
with  brandy,  syphon  and  glasses.  Helping  Bakkus 
he  asked: 

"And  now,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Nothing,  my  friend,  absolutely  nothing.  I 
wallow  in  the  ill-gotten  matrimonial  gains  of  The- 
ophilus and  Ronald.  I  wallow  modesfly,  it  is  true. 
The  richer  strata  of  mire  I  leave  to  hogs  with  whom 
I'm  out  of  sympathy.  You'll  have  observed  that 
I'm  a  man  of  nice  discrimination.  I  choose  my 
hogs.  It  is  the  Art  of  Life." 

"Well,  here's  to  you,"  said  Andrew,  lifting  up 
his  glass. 

"And  to  you." 

Bakkus  emptied  his  glass  at  a  draught,  breathed 
a  sigh  of  infinite  content  and  held  it  out  to  be  refilled. 

"And  now  that  I've  told  you  the  story  of  my  life, 

what  about  you?    What's  the  meaning  of  this " 

he  waved  a  hand  —  "this  reversion  to  type?" 

"You  behold  Petit  Patou  redivivus,"  said  Andrew. 

Bakkus  regarded  him  in  astonishment. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  Generals  can't  do  things 
like  that." 

"That's  the  cry  of  Elodie." 

"She's  a  woman  with  whom  I'm  in  perfect  sym- 
pathy," said  Bakkus. 

Elodie  entered,  cooler,  less  dishevelled,  in  her 
eternal  wrapper.  She  rushed  up  to  Bakkus  and 
wrung  both  his  hands,  overjoyed  to  see  him.  He 
must  pardon  her  flight,  but  really  —  she  was  in  a 
costume  —  and  not  even  till  she  took  it  off  did  she 
know  that  it  was  split  —  Oh,  mon  Dieu !  Right 
across.  With  a  sweep  of  the  hand  she  frankly  indi- 
cated the  locality  of  the  disaster.  She  laughed. 


196  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Well,  it  was  good  that  he  had  arrived  at  last.  He 
would  be  able  to  put  some  sense  into  Andre.  He  a 
General,  to  go  back  to  the  stage.  It  was  crazy! 
He  would  give  Andre  advice,  good  counsel,  that  was 
what  he  needed!  How  Andre  could  win  battles 
when  he  was  so  helpless  in  other  things,  she  could 
not  understand.  She  seized  him  by  the  shoulders 
and  smiled  into  his  face. 

"Mais  toi  qui  es  si  intelligent,  dis  quelque  chose." 

"To  say  anything,  my  dear  Elodie,  while  you 
are  speaking,"  remarked  Bakkus,  "is  beyond  the 
power  of  mortal  man.  But  now  that  you  are 
silent  I  will  say  this.  It  is  time  for  dejeuner.  I  am 
intoxicated  with  the  sense  of  pecuniary  plenitude, 
I  invite  you  both  to  eat  with  me  on  the  Boulevards 
where  we  can  discuss  these  high  matters." 

"But  it  is  you  that  are  crazy,"  cried  Elodie, 
gasping  at  the  unprecedented  proposal  which  in 
itself  shook,  like  an  earthquake,  her  intimately 
constructed  conception  of  Horatio  Bakkus.  And  on 
the  Boulevards,  too!  Her  soul  rose  up  in  alarm. 
"You  are  wanting  in  your  wits.  One  can't  eat  any- 
where —  even  at  a  restaurant  of  the  second  class 
—  under  a  hundred  francs  for  three  persons." 

Bakkus,  with  an  air  Louis  Seize,  implied  that 
one,  two  or  three  hundred  francs  were  as  dirt  in  his 
fingers.  But  Elodie  would  have  none  of  it.  She 
would  be  ashamed  to  put  so  much  money  in  her 
stomach. 

"I  have,"  said  she,  "for  us  two,  eggs  au  beurre 
noir  and  a  blanquette  de  veau,  and  what  is  enough  for 
two  is  enough  for  three.  And  you  must  stay  and 
eat  with  us  as  always." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Bakkus,  "whether  Andrew 
realizes  what  a  pearl  you  are." 

So  he  stayed  to  lunch  and  repeated  the  story  of 
his  good  fortune,  to  which  Elodie  listened  enrap- 
tured as  to  a  tale  of  hidden  treasure  of  which  he  was 
the  herb,  but  never  a  word  could  he  find  in  criticism 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  197 

of  Andrew's  determination.  The  quips  and  caus- 
ticities that  a  couple  of  years  ago  would  have  flowed 
from  his  thin,  ironical  lips,  were  arrested  unformu- 
lated  at  the  back  of  his  brain.  He  became  aware, 
not  so  much  of  a  change  as  of  a  swift  development 
of  the  sterner  side  of  Andrew's  character.  Of 
himself  he  could  talk  sardonically  enough.  He  could 
twit  Elodie  with  her  foibles  in  his  old  way.  But  of 
Andrew  with  his  weather-beaten  mug  of  a  face 
marked  with  new,  deep  lines  of  thought  and  pain, 
sitting  there  courteous  and  simple,  yet  preoccupied, 
strangely  aloof,  the  easy  cynic  felt  curiously  afraid. 
And  when  Elodie  taxed  him  with  pusillanimity  he 
glanced  at  Andrew. 

"He  has  made  up  his  mind,"  he  replied.  "Some 
people's  minds  are  made  up  of  sand  and  water. 
Others  of  stuff  composed  of  builders'  weird  materials 
that  harden  into  concrete.  Others  again  have  iron 
bars  run  through  the  mass  —  reinforced  concrete. 
That's  Andrew.  It's  a  beast  of  a  mind  to  deal 
with,  as  we  have  often  found,  my  dear.  But  what 
would  you  have?  The  animal  is  built  that  way." 

"You  flatter  me,"  grinned  Andrew,  "but  I  don't 
see  what  the  necessity  of  earning  bread  and  butter 
has  to  do  with  a  reiniorced-concrete  mind." 

"It's  such  an  undignified  way  of  earning  it," pro- 
tested Elodie. 

"I  think,"  said  Bakkus,  "it  will  take  as  much 
courage  for  our  poor  friend  to  re-become  Petit 
Patou,  as  it  took  for  him  to  become  General  Lacka- 
day." 

Andrew's  face  suddenly  glowed  and  he  shot  out 
his  long  arm  with  his  bony  wrists  many  inches  from 
his  cuff  and  put  his  delicate  hand  on  Bakkus's 
shoulder. 

"My  dear  fellow,  why  can't  you  always  talk 
like  that?" 

"I'm  going  to,"  replied  Bakkus,  pausing  in 
the  act  of  lighting  one  of  Elodie's  special  reserve 


198  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

of  pre-war  cigars.  "  Don't  you  realize  I'm  just 
transplanted  from  a  forcing  bed  of  High  Anglican 
platitude?" 

But  Elodie  shrugged  her  fat  shoulders  in  some 
petulance. 

"You* men  always  stick  together,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  unventilated  dressing-room  of  the  Olympia 
Music-Hail  in  Marseilles  reeked  of  grease 
paint,  stale  human  exhalations,  the  acrid 
odour,  creeping  up  the  iron  stairs,  of  a  mangy  per- 
forming lion,  and  all  manner  of  unmentionable 
things.  The  month  of  June  is  not  the  ideal  month 
to  visit  Marseilles,  even  if  one  is  free  to  pass  the 
evening  at  a  cafe  table  on  the  Cannebiere,  and 
there  is  a  breeze  coming  in  from  over  the  sea;  but 
in  copper-skied  thundery  weather,  the  sirocco  con- 
ditions of  more  southerly  latitudes,  especially  when 
one  is  cooped  up  in  a  confined  and  airless  space, 
Marseilles  in  June  can  be  a  gasping  inferno.  Andrew, 
in  spite  of  hard  physical  training,  was  wet  through. 
His  little  white-jacketed  dresser,  says  he,  perspired 
audibly.  There  was  not  so  much  air  in  the  dressing- 
room  as  tangible  swelter. 

He  sat  by  the  wooden  table,  in  front  of  a  cracked 
and  steaming  mirror,  the  contents  of  his  make-up 
box  laid  out  before  him,  and  (save  for  one  private 
dress  rehearsal  carried  out  in  surroundings  of  greater 
coolness  and  comfort)  transformed  himself,  for  the 
first  time,  from  General  Lackaday  into  the  mounte- 
bank clown,  Petit  Patou.  The  electric  lights  that 
should  have  illuminated  the  mirror  were  not  work- 
ing—  he  had  found,  to  his  discomfort,  that  mani- 
fold things  in  post-war  France  refused  to  work — 
and  two  candles  fainting  into  hopeless  curves  took 
their  place.  Anxiously  over  a  wet  skin  he  painted 
the  transfiguring  lines,  from  lip  corner  to  ear,  from 
nostril  to  eye,  from  eye  to  brow,  once  the  mechani- 
cal hand-twist  of  a  few  moments  —  now  the  pain- 
fully concentrated  effort  of  all  his  faculties. 

199 


200  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

He  finished  at  last.  The  swart  and  perspiring 
dresser  dried  his  limbs,  held  out  the  green  silk  high- 
heeled  tights  which  reached  to  his  armpits.  Then 
the  grotesque  short-sleeved  jacket.  Then  the  blaz- 
ing crimson  wig  rising  to  the  point  of  its  extravagant 
foot  height.  He  felt  confined  within  a  red-hot 
torture-skin,  a  Nessus  garment  specially  adapted 
to  the  use  of  discarded  Brigadier-Generals.  He  sat 
on  the  straight-backed  chair  and  looked  round  the 
nine  foot  square  flyblown  room,  with  its  peeling 
paper  and  its  strained,  sooty  skylight,  which  all 
the  efforts  of  himself  and  the  dresser  had  failed  to 
open.  It  was  Mademoiselle  Chose,  the  latter  at 
last  remembered,  an  imperious  lady  with  a  horror 
of  draughts  and  the  ear  (and  —  who  knows?  —  per- 
haps the  heart  of  the  management)  who  had  ordered 
it,  in  the  winter,  to  be  nailed  down  from  the  outside. 
As  proof,  the  broken  cords. 

"Tell  the  manager  that  if  it  is  not  unnailed  to- 
morrow, I  shall  smash  a  hole  in  it,"  said  Andrew. 

It  did  not  matter  now.  In  a  few  moments  he 
would  be  summoned  from  the  suffocating  den,  and 
then,  his  turn  over,  he  would  dress  quickly  and 
emerge  into  the  open  air.  Meanwhile,  however, 
he  gasped  in  the  heat  and  the  heavy  odour  of  the 
place;  his  head  ached  with  an  intolerable  pain 
round  his  temples  and  at  the  back  of  his  eyeballs; 
and  acute  nervousness  gripped  his  vitals. 

Presently  the  call-boy  put  his  head  in  the  door- 
way. Andrew  rose,  descended  the  iron  stairs  to 
the  wings.  Instinctively  he  went  to  the  waiting 
table,  covered  with  green  velvet  and  gold,  on  which 
lay  piled  the  once  familiar  properties  —  the  one- 
stringed  fiddle,  the  pith  balls,  the  rings,  the  cigar, 
the  matches,  the  trick  silk  hat,  the  cards,  the  coins, 
and  the  rest  of  the  juggler's  apparatus,  and  me- 
thodically checked  them.  In  the  visible  shaft  of 
brilliantly  lit  stage  he  could  see  the  back  of  the 
head  and  the  plump  shoulders  and  tournure  of  a 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  201 

singer  rendering  in  bravura  fashion  the  Jewel  Song 
from  "  Faust."  The  stillness  whence  arose  this  single 
flood  of  sound  seemed  almost  uncanny.  The  super- 
heated air  thickened  with  hot  human  breath  and 
tobacco  smoke  stood  stagnant  like  a  miasma  in 
the  unventilated  wings  and  back  of  the  stage.  The 
wild  beast  smell  of  the  lion,  although  his  cage  had 
been  hurriedly  wheeled  out  through  the  scenery 
door,  still  persisted  and  caught  the  throat,  and  in 
the  Him  white-washed  bareness,  a  few  figures,  stage- 
hands in  shirt-sleeves,  and  vague  pale  men  in  hard 
felt  hats  tiptoed  about  like  perspiring  ghosts.  One 
of  the  latter  approached  Andrew.  Monsieur  Patou 
need  have  no  fear,  he  whispered.  Everything  was 
arranged  —  the  beautiful  ballroom  interior  —  the 
men  who  were  to  set  the  stage  had  their  orders,  also 
the  lime-h'ght£operators.  Andrew  nodded,  already 
having  given  explicit  instructions.  The  singer  van- 
ished from  the  quivering  streak  of  stage,  in  order 
to  give  her  finale  close  to  the  footlights.  She  ceased. 
Rapturous  applause.  She  appeared  panting,  per- 
spiring, beaming  in  the  wings;  went  on  again  to 
bow  her  acknowledgments,  amid  hoarse  cries  of 
"bis,  bis!"  She  reappeared,  glowing  vaporously  in 
her  triumph,  and  spread  out  her  arms  before  the 
pallid  man  in  the  hard  felt  hat. 

"  Well!  What  did  I  say?  You  made  difficulties  about 
offering  me  an  engagement.    I  told  you  I  could  make 
these  little  birds  eat  out  of  my  hand.  You  hear?" 
the  clamour  would  have  been  perceptible  to  a  deaf 
mute  —  "They  are  mad  about  me.     I  go  on  again." 

"Mais  non,  madame.  Three  songs.  That  is  your 
contract.  The  programme  is  long. ' 

So  spake  the  assistant  manager.  But  the  lacly 
snapped  her  fingers,  heard  like  a  pistol  shot  amid 
the  uproar,  and  made  a  vast  gesture  with  her  arms. 

"  If  I  am  not  allowed  to  have  my  encore,  I  tear 
up  my  contract." 

The  assistant  manager  released  himself  from  re- 


202  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

sponsibility,  yielded  to  woman's  unreason,  and  the 
lady,  who  had  arranged  the  matter  with  the  leader 
of  the  orchestra,  returned  in  contemptuous  triumph 
to  the  stage. 

Elodie,  meanwhile,  had  descended  and  stood  by 
Andrew's  side.  She  wore  a  very  low-cut  and  short- 
skirted  red  evening  frock,  so  tight  that  she  seemed 
to  ooze  distressingly  from  every  aperture.  A  red 
rose  drooped  in  her  thick  black  hair.  Like  the  lank 
green-clad  Andrew,  she  betrayed  anxiety  beneath 
her  heavy  make-up.  The  delay  to  their  turn,  pro- 
longing her  suspense,  caused  her  to  stamp  her  foot 
with  annoyance. 

"The  sale  grue!  and  she  sings  like  a  duck." 

"She  pleases  the  audience,"  whispered  Andrew. 

"And  ruins  our  reception.     It  is  the  last  straw." 

"It  can't  be  helped,'   said  Andrew. 

The  singer  gave  as  her  encore  a  song  from  "La 
Traviata."  She  certainly  had  the  mechanical  tech- 
nique so  beloved  by  French  audiences.  That  of 
Olympia  listened  spell-bound  to  her  trills  and  when 
she  had  finished  broke  once  more  into  enthusiastic 
cheering,  calling  and  recalling  her  two  or  three  times. 
At  last  the  curtain  came  finally  down  and  she  dis- 
appeared up  the  iron  staircase. 

The  interior  backcloth  and  wings  provided  for 
Les  Petit  Patou  were  let  down,  stage  hands  set 
the  table  and  properties,  Andrew  and  Elodie  anx- 
iously supervising,  and  when  all  was  clear  the  cur- 
tain went  up.  Andrew  went  on  alone  and  grinned 
familiarly,  his  old  tradition,  before  the  sea  of  faces. 
A  few  faint  hand-claps  instead  of  the  old  expectant 
laughter  welcomed  him.  A  generation  had  appar- 
ently risen  that  knew  not  Petit  Patou.  His  heart 
sank.  The  heat  of  the  footlights  shimmered  like  a 
furnace  and  smote  him  with  sudden  lassitude.  He 
began  his  tricks.  Took  his  tiny  one-stringed  broom- 
stick handled  fiddle  and  played  it  with  his  hands 
encased  in  grotesquely  long  cotton  gloves.  Pres- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  203 

ently,  with  simulated  impatience,  he  drew  off  the 
gloves,  threw  them,  conjurer  fashion,  vanishing  into 
the  air,  and  then  resumed  his  violin  to  find  himself 
impeded  now  and  then  by  various  articles  cun- 
ningly fixed  to  his  attire,  one  after  another  of  which 
he  disposed  of  like  the  gloves.  Finally  in  his  per- 
plexity he  made  as  if  to  undo  his  tights  (a  certain 
laugh  in  former  days)  but  thinking  better  of  it, 
threw  fiddle  and  bow  as  in  disgust  across  the  stage 
into  the  wings,  where  they  were  caught  by  the  wait- 
ing Elodie.  The  act,  once  arousing  merriment,  fell 
flat.  Andrew's  heart  sank  lower.  In  itself  the  per- 
formance, which  he  had  carried  through  with  skilful 
cleanness,  contained  nothing  risible;  for  laughter  it 
depended  solely  on  a  personal  note  of  grotesquerie, 
of  exaggerated  bewilderment  and  impatience  and  of 
appealingly  idiotic  self-satisfaction  when  each  im- 
pediment was  discovered  and  discarded.  Had  he 
lost  that  personal  touch,  merely  gone  through  his 
conjuring  with  the  mechanical  precision  of  a  soldier 
on  parade?  Heavens,  how  he  hated  himself  and  his 
aching  head  and  the  audience  and  the  lay  out  of 
futile  properties!  Elodie  appeared.  The  perform- 
ance must  continue.  He  threw  into  it  all  his  energy. 
Elodie  gave  him  her  old  loyal  support.  They  did 
their  famous  cigar  trick,  developed  from  the  act  of 
Prepimpin.  He  had  elaborated  much  of  the  comic 
business.  The  new  patter,  with  up-to-date  allusions, 
had  resulted  from  serious  conclave  with  Horatio 
Bakkus,  whose  mordant  wit  supplied  many  a  line 
that  should  have  convulsed  the  house.  But  the 
house  refused  to  be  convulsed.  His  look  of  vacant 
imbecility  when  one  after  another  of  a  set  of  plates 
with  which  he  juggled,  disappeared,  being  fastened 
to  an  elastic  contrivance  to  his  back,  and  his  expres- 
sion of  reproach  when,  turning  Elodie  round,  he  dis- 
covered her  wearing  the  plates  as  a  sort  of  basque, 
which  once  excited,  on  no  matter  what  stage,  rolling 
guffaws  of  mirth,  now  passed  by/,  unappreciated. 


204  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

The  final  item  in  the  programme  was  one  invented 
and  brought  to  mechanical  perfection  just  before  the 
war  broke  out.  He  insisted  on  playing  his  cigar  box 
and  broom-handle  fiddle  in  spite  of  Elodie's  remon- 
strances. There  was  a  pretty  squabble.  He  pulled 
and  she  pulled,  with  the  result  that  both  bow  and 
handle,  by  a  tubular  device,  aided  by  a  ratchet  ap- 
paratus for  the  strings,  assumed  gigantic  proportions. 
Petit  Patou  prevailing,  after  an  almost  disastrous 
fall,  perched  nis  great  height  on  chair  superimposed 
on  table,  and,  with  his  long  lean  legs  and  arms,  look- 
ing like  a  monstrous  and  horrible  spider,  began  to  work 
the  heavy  bow  across  the  long  strings.  He  had  re- 
hearsed it  to  perfection.  In  performance,  something 
happened.  His  artist's  nerve  had  gone.  His  fingers 
fumbled  impotently  for  the  stops.  His  professional 
experience  saved  a  calamitous  situation.  With  an 
acrobat's  stride  he  reached  the  stage,  telescoped 
fiddle  and  bow  to  normal  proportions,  and  after  a 
lightning  nod  to  the  chef  d'orchestre,  played  the  Mar- 
seillaise. At  the  end  there  was  half-hearted  per- 
functory applause.  A  light  hearted  section  of  every 
audience  applauds  anything.  But  mingled  with  it 
there  came  from  another  section  a  horrible  sibilant 
sound,  the  stage  death  warrant  of  many  an  artist's 
dreams,  the  modern  down-turned  thumb  of  the 
Roman  populace  demanding  a  gladiator's  doom. 

The  curtain  fell.  Blank  silence  now  from  its  further 
side.  A  man  swiftly  bundled  together  the  properties 
and  drew  them  off.  A  tired  looking  man  in  evening 
dress,  with  a  hideously  painted  face  and  long  waxed 
moustaches,  stood  in  the  wings  amid  performing 
dogs,  some  free,  some  in  basket  cages,  and  amid  the 
waiting  clutter  of  apparatus  that  at  once  was  rushed 
upon  the  stage.  Andrew  and  Elodie  moved  clear  and 
at  the  bottom  of  the  iron  staircase  he  motioned  to 
her  to  ascend  first.  She  clutched  him  by  the  arm 
and  gulped  down  a  sob. 

"  Mon  pauvre  vieux ! ' ' 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  205 

He  tried  to  smile.  "Want  of  habit.  We'll  get  it 
all  back  soon.  Voyons"  —  he  took  her  fat  chin  in 
his  hand  and  turned  up  her  face,  on  which  make-up, 
perspiration  and  tears  melted  into  one  piteous  paste. 
"This  is  not  the  way  that  battles  are  won." 

On  the  landing  they  separated.  Andrew  entered 
his  sweltering  dressing-room  and  gave  himself  over 
to  the  little  dresser  who  had  just  turned  out  the  dog- 
trainer  in  his  shabby  evening  suit. 

"Monsieur  had  a  good  reception?" 

"Good  enough,"  said  Andrew,  stretching  himself 
out  for  the  slipping  off  of  his  tights. 

"Ah,"  said  the  intuitive  little  man  in  the  white 
jacket.  "  It  is  the  war.  Audiences  are  no  longer  the 
same.  They  no  longer  care  for  subtlety.  Monsieur 
heard  the  singer  before  his  turn?  Well.  Before  the 
war  Olympia  wouldn't  have  listened  to  her.  One 
didn't  pay  to  hear  a  bad  gramophone.  And,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  performance  really  artistic" — the 
little  man  sighed-  "it  was  heart-breaking." 

Andrew  let  him  talk;  obviously  the  hisses  had 
mounted  from  the  wings  to  the  dressing-room  cor- 
ridors; the  man  meant  well  and  kindly.  When  he 
had  dressed  and  appeared  in  his  own  Lackaday  image, 
he  put  a  twenty-franc  note  into  the  dresser's  hand 
with  a  "Thank  you,  my  friend,"  and  marched  out 
and  away  into  the  comparatively  fresh  air  of  the  sul- 
phurous night.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  sat  down  at 
the  corner  of  a  little  obscure  cafe,  commanding  a  view 
of  the  stage-door  and  waited  for  Elodie.  His  nervous- 
ness, even  his  headache,  had  gone.  He  felt  cold  and 
grim  and  passionless,  like  a  man  measuring  himself 
against  fate. 

When  Elodie  came  out,  a  while  later,  he  sat  her 
down  at  the  table,  and  insisted  on  her  drinking  a  Grog 
Americain  to  restore  her  balance.  But  iced  rum  and 
water  could  not  medicine  an  overwrought  soul.  In 
her  native  air,  nothing  could  check  her  irrepressi- 
bility  of  expression.  She  had  to  spend  her  fury  with 


206  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

the  audience.  In  all  her  life  never  had  she  encoun- 
tered such  imbecility  —  such  bestial  stupidity.  Like 
the  dresser,  she  upbraided  the  war.  It  had  changed 
everything.  It  had  changed  the  heart  of  France. 
She,  Marseillaise  of  the  Marseillais,  was  ashamed  of 
being  of  Marseilles.  Once  the  South  was  warm  and 
generous  and  responsive.  Now  it  was  colder  than 
Paris.  She  had  never  imagined  that  the  war  could 
press  like  a  dead  hand  on  the  heart  of  the  people  of 
Provence.  Now  she  knew  it  was  true  what  Bakkus 
had  once  said  —  she  had  been  very  angry,  but  he  was 
right  —  that  through  the  sunny  nature  of  every  child 
of  the  Midi  swept  the  mistral. 

She  was  not  very  consecutive  or  coherent  or  logical. 
She  sought  clamorously  for  every  evil  influence,  post- 
war, racial,  political,  that  could  account  for  the 
frozen  failure  of  the  evening's  performance.  No 
thought  disloyal  to  Andre  hovered  on  the  outskirts 
of  her  mind.  He  perceived  it,  greatly  touched. 
When  she  paused  in  her  vehement  outburst,  he 
leaned  towards  her,  elbow  on  table,  and  his  delicate 
hand  at  the  end  of  his  long  bony  wrist  held  up  as  a 
signal  of  arrest: 

"The  fault  is  not  that  of  France,  or  Marseilles,  my 
dear  Elodie.  Perhaps  the  war  may  have  something 
to  do  with  it.  But  the  fault  is  mine." 

She  waved  away  so  insane  a  suggestion.  Went 
into  details.  How  could  it  be  his  fault  when  the 
night's  tricks  were  as  identical  with  the  tricks  which 
used  to  command  applause  as  two  reproductions  of 
the  same  cinema  film?  As  for  the  breakdown  of  the 
new  trick  with  the  elongated  violin  and  bow,  she  had 
seen  where  the  mechanism  had  not  worked  properly. 
A  joint  had  stuck;  the  audience  had  seen  it  too;  an 
accident  which  could  happen  anywhere;  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  failure  of  the  entertain- 
ment. The  failure  lay  in  the  mental  and  moral  con- 
dition of  the  degraded  post-war  audience.  For  all 
her  championing,  Andrew  shook  his  head  sadly. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  207 

"No.  Your  cinema  analogy  won't  hold.  The 
fault's  in  me,  and  I'm  sorry,  my  dear." 

He  tried  to  explain.  She  tried  to  understand.  It 
was  hopeless.  He  knew  that  he  had  lost,  and  had  not 
yet  recovered,  that  spiritual  or  magnetic  contact 
with  his  audience  which  is  the  first  element  in  artistic 
success,  be  the  artistry  never  so  primitive.  The  audi- 
ence, he  realized  full  well,  had  regarded  him  as  a 
mechanical  figure  executing  mechanical  antics  which 
in  themselves  had  no  particular  claim  on  absorbing 
human  interest.  The  eternal  appeal,  the  "held  me 
with  his  eye"  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  was  wanting. 
And  the  man  trained  in  the  school  of  war  saw  why. 

They  walked  to  their  modest  hostelry.  He  had 
shrunk  from  the  great  hotels  where  the  lounges  were 
still  full  of  men  in  khaki  going  or  coming  from  over- 
seas —  among  whom  he  would  surely  find  acquaint- 
ances. But  he  no  longer  desired  to  meet  them.  He 
had  cut  himself  clean  adrift  from  the  old  associations. 
He  told  me  that  Bakkus  and  I  were  his  only  cor- 
respondents. Henceforth  he  would  exist  solely  as 
Petit  Patou,  flinging  General  Lackaday  dead  among 
the  dead  things  of  war.  .  .  .  Besides,  the  great  hotels 
of  Marseilles  cost  the  eyes  of  your  head.  The  good  old 
days  of  the  comfortable  car  and  inexpensive  lodging 
had  gone  apparently  for  ever,  and  he  had  to  fall  back 
on  the  travel  and  accommodation  of  his  early  strug- 
gling days. 

Elodie  continued  the  discussion  of  the  disaster. 
His  face  wore  its  wry  grin  of  discomfiture;  but  he 
said  little.  They  must  go  on  as  they  had  begun. 
Perhaps  things  would  right  themselves.  He  would 
lose  his  loathing  of  his  mountebank  trade  and  thus 
win  back  the  sympathy  of  his  audience. 

Before  they  separated  for  the  night  she  flung  her 
arm  protectingly  round  him  and  kissed  him. 

"  They  shall  applaud  you,  mon  vieux,  I  promise  you." 

He  laughed.    Again  her  faith  touched  him  deeply. 

"You  have  not  changed  since  our  first  meeting  in 


208  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

the  Restaurant  Garden  at  Avignon.  You  are  always 
my  mascot,  Elodie!" 

The  menacing  thunder  broke  in  the  night,  and  all 
the  next  day  it  rained  pitilessly.  Two  or  three  morn- 
ing hours  they  spent  at  the  music-hall,  rehearsing, 
so  that  no  physical  imperfection  should  mar  the 
evening  performance.  The  giant  violin  worked  with 
the  precision  of  a  Stradivarius.  All  that  human 
care  could  do  was  done.  They  drove  back  to  the  hotel 
to  lunch.  Elodie  lounged  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon 
in  her  room,  with  a  couple  of  love-birds  for  company 
— .the  rest  of  the  aviary  in  the  Saint- Denis  flat  being 
under  the  guardianship  of  Bakkus;  and  Andrew, 
with  his  cleared  dressing-table  for  a  desk,  brought 
up-to-date  the  autobiographical  manuscript  which 
for  the  past  few  months  had  solaced  so  many  hours 
of  enforced  leisure.  Then  they  dined  and  proceeded 
to  the  music-hall,  Elodie  defiant,  with  a  flush  on  her 
cheek,  Andrew  with  his  jaw  set  in  a  sort  of  hopeless 
determination. 

The  preparations  of  the  preceding  evening  repeated 
themselves.  The  rain  had  slightly  cooled  the  air, 
but  the  smell  of  drains  and  humanity  and  leaky  gas- 
pipes  and  the  mangy  lion,  still  caught  at  Andrew's 
throat.  The  little  dresser,  while  investing  him  in 
the  hated  motley,  pointed  proudly  to  the  open  sky- 
light. He  himself  had  mounted,  at  great  personal 
peril,  to  the  roof.  One  was  not  a  Chasseur  Alpin  for 
nothing.  0  yes,  he  had  gone  all  through  the  war. 
He  had  the  military  medal,  and  four  chevrons.  Had 
Monsieur  Patou  seen  any  service?  Like  everybody 
else,  said  Andrew.  It  was  good  to  get  back  to  civil 
life  and  one's  ordinary  tasks,  said  the  dresser  whom 
the  change  in  the  weather  perhaps  had  rendered 
more  optimistic.  Was  not  Monsieur  Patou  glad  to 
return  to  the  stage?  A  man's  work,  what?  The  war 
was  for  savages  and  wild  beasts  —  not  for  human 
beings.  Andrew  let  him  talk  on,  wondering  idly  how 
he  had  sloughed  his  soldier's  life  without  a  regret.  He 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  209 

stood  up,  once  more,  in  his  zany  garb,  and,  looking  in 
the  mirror,  lost  sight  of  himself  for  a  poignant  second 
while  the  dressing-room  changed  into  an  evil-smell- 
ing dug-out,  dark  save  for  one  guttering  candle  stuck 
in  a  bottle,  and  in  the  shadows  he  saw  hah0  a  dozen 
lean,  stern  faces  lit  with  the  eyes  of  men  whom  he  was 
sending  forth  to  defy  death.  And  every  one  of  them 
hung  upon  his  words  as  though  they  were  a  god's. 
The  transient  vision  faded,  and  he  became  aware 
again  of  the  grotesque  and  painted  clown  gibbering 
meaninglessly  out  of  the  glass. 

He  strode  down  the  iron  stairs.  There  was  the 
table  of  properties  waiting  in  the  wings.  There  came 
Elodie  to  join  him.  There,  in  the  fiercely  lighted 
strip  of  stage,  the  back,  cut  by  the  wing,  of  the 
singer  with  the  voice  of  the  duck,  ending  the  "Jewel 
Song."  Then  came  the  applause,  the  now  undis- 
puted encore,  the  weary  nervous  wait.  .  .  .  Such 
had  been  his  life  night  after  night  in  unconsidered, 
undreamed-of  monotony  —  before  the  war  .  .  .  such 
would  be  his  life  henceforward  —  changeless,  deadly, 
appalling. 

At  last,  he  went  on.  Through  the  mysterious  psy- 
chological influence  which  one  audience  has  on  an- 
other, his  reception  was  even  more  frigid  than  before. 
Elodie  made  her  entrance.  The  house  grew  restless, 
inattentive,  Andrew  flogged  his  soul  until  he  seemed 
to  sweat  his  heart's  blood.  Here  and  there  loud  talk- 
ing and  hoarse  laughter  rose  above  the  buzz  and 
rustle  of  an  unappreciative  audience.  Elodie's  breast 
heaved  and  her  face  grew  pallid  beneath  its  heavy 
paint,  but  her  eyes  were  bright. 

"Allans  faujours"  Andrew  whispered. 

But  in  the  famous  cigar  act  he  missed,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  far  off  rehearsals  after  the  death  of 
Prepimpin,  when  the  fault  was  due  to  Elodie's  lack 
of  skill.  But  now,  she  threw  it  fair.  It  was  he  who 
missed.  The  lighted  cigar  smote  him  on  the  cheek. 
The  impossibility  of  the  occurrence  staggered  him 


210  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

for  a  second.  But  a  second  on  the  stage  is  an  ap- 
preciable space  of  time,  sufficient  for  the  audience 
to  pounce  on  his  clumsiness,  to  burst  into  a  roar  of 
jeering  laughter,  to  take  up  the  cruelty  of  the  hiss. 

But  before  he  could  do  anything  Elodie,  coarse 
and  bulging  out  of  her  short  red  bodice  and  skirt, 
her  features  contorted  with  anger,  was  in  front  of 
the  footlights,  defying  the  house. 

"Laches!"  she  cried. 

The  word  which  no  Frenchman  can  hear  unper- 
turbed cut  the  clamour  like  a  trumpet  call.  There 
was  sudden  silence. 

"Yes.  Cowards.  You  make  me  ashamed  that  I 
am  of  Marseilles.  To  you  a  demobilized  hero  is 
nothing.  But  instead  of  practising  his  tricks  during 
the  war  to  amuse  you,  he  has  been  fighting  for  his 
country.  And  he  has  earned  this."  She  flashed  from 
her  bosom  a  white-enamelled  cross  depending  from 
a  red  ribbon.  "  Voila  !  Not  Chevalier  —  but  Officier 
de  la  Legion  cTHonneur!"  With  both  pudgy  arms 
outstretched  she  held  the  audience  for  the  tense 
moment.  "And  from  simple  soldier  to  General  of 
Brigade.  And  that  is  the  Petit  Patou  whom  you 
insult."  She  threatened  them  with  the  cross.  "You 
insult  France!" 

Reaction  followed  swift  on  her  lightning  speech. 
The  French  audience,  sensitive  to  the  dramatic  and 
the  patriotic,  burst  into  tumultuous  acclamation. 
Elodie  smiled  at  them  triumphantly  and  turned  to 
Andrew,  who  stood  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  petrified, 
his  chin  in  the  air,  at  the  full  stretch  of  his  inordinate 
height,  his  eyes  gleaming,  his  long  thin  lips  tightened 
so  that  they  broke  the  painted  grin,  his  hands  on  his 
hips. 

Now  if  Elodie  had  carried  out  the  plan  developed 
during  the  night  she  could  then  and  there  have  died 
happily.  Exulting  in  her  success,  she  tripped  up  the 
stage  to  Andrew,  the  clasp  of  the  decoration  between 
finger  and  thumb,  hoping  to  pin  it  on  his  breast.  The 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  211 

applause  dropped,  the  house  hovering  for  an  instant 
on  the  verge  of  anti-climax.  But  Andrew,  with -a 
flash  of  rage  and  hatred,  waved  her  away,  and  strode 
down  to  the  footlights,  tearing  off  his  grotesque  wig 
and  revealing  his  shock  of  carroty  hair.  His  soul 
was  sick  with  horror.  Only  the  swift  silence  made 
him  realize  that  he  was  bound  to  address  the  audience. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  I  thank  you  for 
your  generosity  to  me  as  a  soldier.  But  I  am  here 
to  try  to  merit  your  approbation  as  an  artist.  For 
what  has  just  happened  I  must  ask  you  to  pardon  a 
woman's  heart." 

He  remained  for  a  while  glaring  at  them.  Then, 
when  the  applause  came  to  an  end,  he  bowed,  half 
ironically  and  gave  a  quick,  imperious  order,  at  which 
the  curtain  was  rung  down  amid  an  uproar  of  excite- 
ment. He  strode  into  the  wings  followed  by  Elodie 
starry-eyed,  and  stood  panting.  The  curtain  rose  as 
if  automatically.  The  manager  thrust  him  towards 
the  stage. 

"They  want  you,"  he  cried. 

"They  can  go  to  the  devil,"  said  Andrew. 

Regardless  of  the  clamour,  he  stalked  with  Elodie 
to  the  foot  of  the  iron  stairs.  On  their  way  they 
passed  the  waxed  moustachioed  trainer  of  the  per- 
forming dogs. 

"A  good  coup  de  theatre,  Madame,"  he  remarked 
jealously. 

Andrew  glowered  down  on  him. 

"You  say,  Monsieur-  —  ?" 

But  the  dog  trainer  meeting  the  eyes  burning  in 
the  painted  face,  thought  it  best  to  say  nothing,  and 
Andrew  mounted  the  stairs.  Elodie  followed  him 
into  his  dressing-room  palpitating  with  excitement 
and  perplexity  and  clutching  both  his  arms  looked 
wildly  into  his  face. 

"You  are  not  pleased  with  me?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  regarded  her  with  stupid 
hostility;  then,  getting  a  grip  on  himself,  he  saw  things 


212  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

from  her  point  of  view  and  realized  her  wit  and  her 
courage  and  her  devotion.  It  was  no  fault  of  hers 
that  she  had  no  notion  of  his  abhorrence  of  the 
scene. 

He  smiled. 

"It  is  only  you  who  could  have  dared,"  he  said. 

"I  told  you  last  night  they  should  applaud  you." 

"And  last  night  I  told  you  you  are  always  my 
mascot." 

"If  it  only  weren't  true  that  you  love  me  no 
longer,"  said  Elodie. 

The  dresser  entered.  Elodie  slipped  out.  Andrew 
made  a  step  after  her  to  the  threshold. 

"What  the  devil  did  she  mean  by  that?"  said  he, 
after  the  manner  of  men. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SHE  did  not  repeat  the  reproach,  nor  did  Andrew 
put  to  her  the  question  which  he  had  asked 
himself.  The  amicable  placidity  unruffled  by 
quarrel,  which  marked  their  relations,  was  far  too 
precious  to  be  disturbed  by  an  unnecessary  plumbing 
of  emotional  depths.  As  far  as  he  could  grapple 
with  psychological  complexities,  there  had  been 
nothing  between  them,  through  all  the  years,  of  the 
divine  passion.  She  had  come  to  him  disillusioned 
and  weary.  He  had  come  to  her  with  a  queer  super- 
stitious gratitude  for  help  in  the  past  and  a  full  recog- 
nition of  present  sympathy  and  service.  As  the 
French  say,  they  had  made  together  un  bon  menage. 
Save  for  a  few  half-hysterical  days  during  the  war  — 
and  in  that  incomprehensible  pre-war  period  at  the 
end  of  which  the  birds  came  to  her  rescue,  there  had 
been  little  talk  of  love  and  dreams  of  delight  and  the 
rest  of  the  vaporous  paradise  of  the  mutually  infatu- 
ated. He  could  not  manifest,  nor  did  she  demand,  a 
lover's  ardour.  It  had  all  been  as  comfortable  and 
satisfactory  as  you  please.  And  now,  at  the  most 
irrelevant  moment,  according  to  his  masculine  mind, 
came  this  cry  of  the  heart. 

But  was  it  of  the  heart?  Did  it  not  rather  proceed 
from  childish  disappointment  at  his  lack  of  enthusi- 
astic praise  of  her  splendid  exploit?  As  I  say,  he 
judged  it  prudent  to  leave  the  problem  unsolved. 
Of  the  exploit  itself,  needless  to  remark,  she  talked 
interminably.  Generous  and  kind-hearted,  he  agreed 
with  her  arguments.  Of  the  humiliation  she  had 
wrought  for  him,  he  allowed  her  to  have  no  notion. 

He  shivered  all  night  at  the  degradation  of  his 
proudest  honour.  It  had  been  gained,  not  as  one  of 

213 


214  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

a  batch  of  crosses  handed  over  to  the  British  military 
authorities  for  distribution,  but  on  the  field.  He  had 
come,  with  a  handful  of  men,  to  the  relief  of  a  sorely 
pressed  village  held  by  the  French;  somehow  he  had 
rallied  the  composite  force,  wiped  out  two  or  three 
nests  of  machine  guns  and  driven  out  the  Germans; 
as  officer  in  command  he  had  consolidated  the  village, 
so  that,  when  the  French  came  up,  he  had  handed  it 
over  to  them  as  a  victor.  A  French  general  had 
pinned  the  cross  on  his  breast  on  a  day  of  wind  and 
rain  and  bursting  shell,  on  a  vast  plain  of  unutterable 
devastation.  The  upholding  of  it  before  the  mob  of 
Marseilles  had  been  a  profanation.  In  these  mo- 
ments of  anguished  amazement  he  had  suffered  as 
he  had  never  suffered  in  his  life  before.  And  he  had 
been  helpless.  Before  he  realized  what  was  being 
done,  Elodie,  in  her  tempestuous  swiftness,  had  done 
it.  It  was  only  when  she  came  to  fix  the  cross  on  his 
breast  that  his  soul  sprang  to  irresistible  revolt.  He 
could  have  taken  her  by  the  throat  and  wrung  it, 
and  flung  her  away  dead. 

Thus,  they  were  infinite  leagues  asunder.  She  met 
what  amounted  to  wearily  indulgent  forgiveness 
when  she  had  fully  expected  to  reap  the  golden  meed 
of  heroism. 

The  next  morning,  she  went  about  silent,  perplexed, 
unhappy.  By  her  stroke  of  genius  she  had  secured  for 
him  a  real  success.  If  he  had  allowed  her  to  crown 
the  dramatic  situation  by  pinning  on  the  cross,  his 
triumph  had  been  such  as  the  stage  had  never  seen. 

"Why  didn't  you  let  me  do  it?"  she  asked. 

"To  complete  a  work  of  art,"  said  he,  "is  always 
a  mistake.  You  must  leave  something  to  the  im- 
agination." 

"But  I  did  right.    Tell  me  I  did  right." 

Denial  would  have  been  a  dagger  thrust  through  a 
loyal  heart. 

"You  acted,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "like  a  noble 
woman." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  215 

And  she  was  aware  of  a  shell  which  she  could  not 
pierce.  '  From  their  first  intimate  days,  she  had  al- 
ways felt  him  aloof  from  her;  as  a  soldier  during  the 
war  she  had  found  him  the  counterpart  of  the  mil- 
lions of  men  who  had  heroically  fought;  as  an  officer 
of  high  rank,  as  a  General,  she  had  stood,  in  her  atti- 
tude towards  him,  in  uneducated  awe;  as  a  General 
demobilized  and  a  reincarnation  of  Petit  Patou,  he 
had  inspired  her  with  a  familiarity  bred  not  of  con- 
tempt —  that  was  absurd  —  but  of  disillusion.  And 
now,  to  her  primitive  intelligence,  he  loomed  again 
as  an  incomprehensible  being  actuated  by  a  moral 
network  of  motives  of  which  she  had  no  conception. 

He  escaped  early  from  the  little  hotel  and  wan- 
dered along  the  quays  encumbered  with  mountains 
of  goods  awaiting  transport,  mighty  crates  of  food- 
stuffs, bales  of  hay,  barrels  of  wine  from  Algiers. 
Troops  artd  sailors  of  all  nations  mingled  with  the 
dock  employees  who  tried  to  restore  order  out  of 
chaos.  Calm  goods  trains  whistled  idly  by  the  side 
of  ships  or  on  sidings,  the  engine  drivers  lounging 
high  above  the  crowd  in  Olympian  indifference.  The 
broken  down  organization  had  nothing  to  do  with 
them.  Here,  in  the  din  and  the  clatter  and  the  dust 
and  the  smell  of  tar  and  other  sea-faring  things  reek- 
ing shorewards  under  the  blazing  sun,  Andrew  could 
hide  himself  from  the  reputable  population  of  the 
town.  In  the  confusion  of  a  strange  world  he  could 
think.  His  life's  unmeaningness  overwhelmed  him; 
he  moved  under  the  burden  of  its  irony.  In  that  she 
had  hurled  insulting  defiance  at  a  vast,  rough  audi- 
ence, Elodie  had  done  a  valiant  thing.  She  had  done 
it  for  love  of  him.  His  failure  to  respond  had  evoked 
her  reproach.  But  the  very  act  for  which  she  claimed 
due  reward  was  a  stab  to  the  heart  of  any  lingering 
love. 

And  yet,  he  must  go  on.  There  was  no  way  out. 
He  had  faced  facts  ever  since  the  days  of  Ben  Flint 
—  and  Elodie  was  a  fact,  the  principal  fact  in  his 


216  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

life.  Curious  that  she  should  have  faded  into  com- 
parative insignificance  during  the  war  —  especially 
during  the  last  two  years  of  it  when  he  had  not  seen 
her.  She  seemed  to  have  undergone  a  vehement 
resurrection.  The  shadow  of  the  war  had  developed 
into  the  insistent  flesh  and  blood  of  peace. 

He  wandered  far  over  the  quay,  where  the 
ancient  Algiers  boat  was  on  the  point  of  departure, 
crammed  with  red-tarbooshed  troops,  zouaves,  colo- 
nials, swarthy  Turcos  and  Spahis,  grinning  blacks  with 
faces  like  polished  boots,  all  exultant  in  the  approach- 
ing demobilization.  The  grey-blue  mass  glistened 
with  medals.  The  blacks  were  eating  —  with  the 
contented  merriment  of  children  at  a  Sunday  School 
treat.  Andrew  smiled  at  many  memories.  Black 
troops  seemed  always  to  be  eating.  As  he  stood 
watching,  porters  and  pack-laden  blue  helmeted 
poilus  jostled  him,  until  he  found  a  small  oasis  of 
quiet  near  the  bows.  Here  a  hand  was  clapped  on 
his  shoulder  and  a  voice  said: 

"Surely  you're  Lackaday?" 

He  turned  and  beheld  the  clean-cut  bronzed  face 
of  a  man  in  civilian  dress.  As  often  happens,  what 
he  had  sought  to  avoid  in  the  streaming  streets  of  the 
town,  he  had  found  in  the  wilderness  —  an  acquaint-  ' 
ance.  It  was  one  Arbuthnot,  an  Australian  colonel 
of  artillery  who,  through  the  chances  of  war,  had 
rendered  his  battalion  great  service.  A  keen,  sparely 
built  man  made  of  leather  and  whipcord,  with  the 
Australian's  shrewd  blue  eyes. 

They  exchanged  the  commonplaces  of  greeting. 

"Demobilized?"  said  Andrew. 

"Thank  Heaven." 

"You  seem  glad." 

"Good  Lord!  I  should  think  so.  Aren't  you  glad 
it's  all  over?" 

"I  don't  quite  know,"  said  Andrew,  smiling  wist- 
fully. 

"Well,  I  am,"  declared  Arbuthnot.     "It  was  a 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  217 

beastly  mess  that  had  to  be  cleared  up,  and  now  it's 
done  as  far  as  my  little  responsibility  is  concerned. 
I'm  delighted.  I  want  to  get  back  to  my  wife  and 
family  and  lead  the  life  of  a  human  being.  War's  a 
dog's  life.  It  has  nothing  to  recommend  it.  It's  as 
stupid  and  senseless  as  a  typhoon."  He  laughed. 
"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

Andrew  waved  a  hand.    "Putting  in  time." 

"So  am  I.  Till  my  boat  sails.  I  thought  before  I 
left  I'd  look  at  a  merrier  end  of  France.  By  Gosh! 
They're  a  happy  crowd"  —  he  pointed  to  the  packed 
mass  on  board  the  ancient  tub  of  the  Compagnie 
Generate  Transatlantique. 

"You  share  their  feelings,"  said  Andrew. 

Arbuthnot  glanced  at  him  keenly. 

"I  heard  they  made  you  a  Brigadier.  Yes?  And 
you've  chucked  it?" 

"I'm  a  civilian,  even  as  you  are,"  said  Andrew. 

Arbuthnot  pushed  back  his  hat  and  wiped  the  per- 
spiration from  his  forehead. 

"  For  goodness'  sake  let  us  get  out  of  this  and  sit 
down  somewhere  and  have  a  talk." 

He  moved  away,  Andrew  following,  and  hailed  a 
broken  down  cab,  a  victoria  which  had  just  deposited 
a  passenger  by  the  steamer's  side. 

"To  the  Cannebiere,"  said  he,  and  they  drove  off. 
"  If  you  have  anything  to  do,  please  tell  me.  But  I 
know  nobody  in  this  furnace  of  a  town.  You're  a 
godsend." 

A  while  afterwards  they  were  seated  beneath  the 
awning  of  a  crowded  cafe  on  the  Cannebiere.  Cease- 
less thousands  of  the  globe's  population  passed  by, 
from  the  bare-headed,  impudent  work  girls  of  Mar- 
seilles, as  like  each  other  and  the  child  Elodie  as 
peas  in  a  pod,  to  the  daintily  costumed  maiden; 
from  the  feathered,  flashing  quean  of  the  streets  to 
the  crape  encumbered  figure  of  the  French  war- 
widow;  from  the  abject  shuffler  clad  in  flapping  rags 
and  frowsy  beard  to  the  stout  merchant  dressed 


218  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

English  fashion,  in  grey  flannels  and  straw  hat,  with 
two  rolls  of  comfortable  fat  above  his  silk  collar; 
from  the  stray  British  or  American  private  perspir- 
ing in  khaki  to  splendid  officers,  French,  Italian, 
Roumanian,  Serbian,  Czecho-Slovak,  be-medalled 
like  the  advertisements  of  patent  foods;  from  the 
middle  aged,  leaden  pipe  laden  Marseilles  plumber, 
in  his  blue  smock,  to  the  blue-uniformed  Senegalese 
private,  staring  with  his  childish  grin,  at  the  mul- 
titudinous hurrying  sights  of  an  unfamiliar  crowd. 
Backwards  and  forwards  they  passed  in  two  thick 
unending  streams.  And  the  roadway  clashed  with 
trams  following  each  other,  up  and  down,  at  fraction 
of  a  second  intervals,  and  with  a  congestion  of  wag- 
gons, carts,  cabs,  automobiles,  waiting  patiently  on 
the  pleasure  of  these  relentless,  strident  symbols  of 
democracy. 

In  his  troubled  mood,  Andrew  found  Arbuthnot 
also  a  godsend.  It  was  good  to  talk  once  more  with 
a  man  of  his  own  calibre  about  the  things  that  had 
once  so  intensely  mattered.  He  lost  his  shyness 
and  forgot  for  a  time  his  anxieties.  The  rushing  life 
before  him  had  in  its  way  a  soothing  charm  to  one 
resting,  as  it  were,  on  the  quiet  bank.  It  was  good, 
too,  to  talk  English  —  or  listen  to  it;  for  much  of 
the  talking  was  done  by  his  companion.  Arbuthnot 
was  full  of  the  big,  beloved  life  that  lay  before  him. 
Of  the  wife  and  children  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
four  years.  Of  his  home  near  Sydney.  Of  the  Solo- 
mon Islands,  where  he  spent  the  few  healthy  months 
of  the  year  growing  coco-nuts  for  copra  and  develop- 
ing a  pearl  fishery.  A  glorious,  free  existence,  said  he. 
And  real  men  to  work  with.  Every  able-bodied  white 
in  the  Solomon  Islands  had  joined  up  —  some  hun- 
dred and  sixty  of  them.  How  many  would  be  going 
back,  alas!  he  did  not  yet  know.  They  had  been 
distributed  among  so  many  units  of  the  Australian 
Forces.  But  he  was  looking  forward  to  seeing  some  of 
the  old  hard-bitten  faces  in  those  isles  of  enchantment. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  219 

"I  thought,"  said  Andrew,  "that  it  rained  all  the 
year  round  on  the  Solomon  Islands;  that  they  were 
so  depressing,  in  fact,  that  the  natives  ate  each  other 
to  keep  up  their  spirits." 

Arbuthnot  protested  vehemently.  It  was  the  love- 
liest climate  in  the  world  during  the  time  that  white 
folk  stayed  there.  Of  course,  there  was  a  rainy  season, 
but  then  everybody  went  back  to  Australia.  As  for 
cannibals  —  he  laughed. 

"  If  you're  at  a  loose  end,"  said  he,  "come  out  with 
me  and  have  a  look  round.  It  will  clear  the  war  out 
of  your  system." 

Andrew  held  a  cigarette  between  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  and  looked  at  the  curling  smoke.  The 
picture  of  the  reefs  and  surfs  and  white  sands 
and  palm-trees  of  these  far  off  islands  rose,  fas- 
cinating, before  his  eyes.  And  then  he  remembered 
that  he  had  once  a  father  and  mother  —  and  a 
birth-place. 

"Curiously  enough,"  said  he,  "I  am  Australian 
born." 

He  had  scarcely  ever  realized  the  fact. 

"All  the  more  reason,"  said  Arbuthnot  heartily. 
"  Come  with  me  on  the  Osway.  The  captain's  a  pal 
of  mine.  He'll  fix  up  a  bunk  for  you  somewhere." 

He  offered  boundless  hospitality.  Andrew  grew 
more  wistful.  He  thanked  Arbuthnot.  But  — 

" I'm  a  poor  man,"  said  he,  "and  have  to  earn  my 
living  at  my  old  job." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"I'm  a  music-hall  artist,"  said  Andrew. 

"You?  Good  Lord!  I  thought  you  had  been  a 
soldier  all  your  life.  One  of  the  old  contemptibles." 

"  I  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  Grenadier  Guards," 
smiled  Andrew. 

"And  came  to  be  a  General  in  a  brass  hat  —  and 
now  you're  back  on  the  stage.  Somehow  it  doesn't 
fit.  Do  you  like  it?" 

Andrew  winched  at  the  intimate  question  of  the 


220  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

frank  and  direct  Australian.  Last  night's  scene  swept 
across  his  vision,  hateful  and  humiliating. 

"I  have  no  choice,"  said  he. 

As  before,  on  the  quay,  Arbuthnot  looked  at  him, 
keenly. 

"  I  don't  think  you  do  like  it.  I've  met  hundreds 
of  fellows  who  feel  just  the  same  as  you.  I'm  dif- 
ferent, as  I  told  you.  But  I  can  understand  the  other 
point  of  view.  Perhaps  I  should  kick  if  I  had  to  go 
back  to  a  poky  office,  instead  of  a  free,  open-air  life. 
After  all,  we're  creatures  of  circumstance." 

He  paused  to  light  a  cigar.  Andrew  made  no  re- 
ply, and  the  conversational  topic  died  a  natural 
death.  They  talked  of  other  things  —  went  back 
to  Arras,  the  Somme,  Saint  Quentin.  Presently  Ar- 
buthnot, pulling  out  his  watch,  suggested  lunch. 
Andrew  rose,  pleading  an  engagement  —  his  daily 
engagement  with  Elodie  at  the  stuffy  little  hotel 
table  d'hote.  But  the  other  begged  him  for  God's 
sake  not  to  desert  him  in  this  lonely  multitude.  It 
would  not  be  the  act  of  a  Christian  and  a  comrade. 
Andrew  was  tempted,  feeling  the  charm  and  breezi- 
ness  of  the  Australian  like  a  breath  of  the  free  air  of 
Flanders  and  Picardy.  He  went  indoors  to  the  tele- 
phone. Elodie,  eventually  found,  responded.  Of 
course,  her  poor  Andre  must  have  his  little  pleasure. 
He  deserved  it,  mon  Dieu !  It  was  gentil  of  him  to 
consult  her.  And  it  had  fallen  out  quite  well,  for  she 
herself  could  not  eat.  The  stopping  had  dislodged 
itself  from  one  of  her  teeth  which  was  driving  her 
mad  with  pain  and  she  was  going  to  a  dentist  at  one 
o'clock.  He  commiserated  with  her  on  her  misad- 
venture. Elodie  went  into  realistic  details  of  the 
wreck  of  the  gold  stopping  on  the  praline  stuffing  of 
a  chocolate.  Then  an  anguished  "  Ne  me  coupez  pas, 
Mademoiselle."  But  Mademoiselle  of  the  Exchange 
cut  ruthlessly,  and  Andrew  returned  to  Arbuthnot. 

"I'm  at  your  service,"  said  he. 

Arbuthnot  put  himself  into   Lackaday's  hands. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  221 

The  best  place.  The  best  food.  It  was  not  often  he 
had  the  honour  of  entertaining  a  British  General 
unawares.  Andrew  protested.  The  other  insisted. 
The  General  was  his  guest.  Where  should  they  go? 
Somewhere  characteristic.  He  was  sick  of  the  food 
at  grand  hotels.  It  was  the  same  all  the  world 
over  —  Stockholm,  Tokio,  Scarborough,  Melbourne, 
Marseilles. 

"Marseilles  has  nothing  to  boast  of  in  the  way  of 
cookery,"  said  Andrew,  "save  its  bouillabaisse." 

"Now  what's  that?"  cried  Arbuthnot.  "I've  sort 
of  heard  of  it." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Andrew,  with  his  ear-to-ear 
grin.  "To  live  in  Marseilles  and  be  innocent  of 
bouillabaisse  is  like  having  gone  through  the  war 
without  tasting  bully  beef." 

He  was  for  dragging  him  to  the  little  restaurant 
up  a  side  street  in  the  heart  of  the  town  which  is  the 
true  shrine  of  bouillabaisse.  But  Arbuthnot  had 
heard  vaguely  of  another  place,  celebrated  for  the 
dish,  where  one  could  fill  one's  lungs  as  well  as  one's 
stomach. 

"The  Reserve." 

"  That's  it.    Taxi ! "  cried  Arbuthnot. 

So  they  drove  out  and  sat  in  the  cool  gallery  of 
the  Reserve,  by  a  window  table,  and  looked  on  the 
blue  Mediterranean,  and  the  wonderous  dish  was 
set  before  them  and  piously  served  by  the  maitre 
d'hotel.  Rascasse,  Loup-de-mer,  mostelle,  langouste 
...  a  studied  helping  of  each  in  a  soup  plate,  then 
the  sodden  toast  from  the  tureen  and  the  ladles  of 
clear,  rich,  yellow  liquid  flavoured  with  saffron  and 
with  an  artist's  inspiration  of  garlic,  the  essence  of 
the  dozen  kinds  of  fish  that  had  yielded  up  their 
being  to  the  making  of  the  bouillabaisse.  The  perfect 
serving  of  it  is  a  ceremonial  in  the  grand  manner. 

Arbuthnot,  regarding  his  swimming  plate,  looked 
embarrassed. 

"Knife,  fork  and  spoon,"  said  Andrew. 


222  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

They  ate  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then  Arbuthnot  said : 

"Do  you  remember  that  wonderful  chapter  in 
Meredith's  Egoist  when  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne 
offers  the  second  bottle  of  the  Patterne  Port  to 
Doctor  Middleton,  Clara's  father  —  and  the  old 
fellow  says:  'I  have  but  a  girl  to  give?'  Well,  I  feel 
like  that.  This  is  the  most  wonderful  eating  that 
humanity  has  ever  devised.  I'm  not  a  glutton.  If 
I  were  I  should  have  sampled  this  before.  I'm  just 
an  uncivilized  man  from  the  bush  overwhelmed  by 
a  new  sensation.  I'm  your  debtor,  General,  to  all 
eternity.  And  your  genius  in  recommending  this 
wine"  —  he  filled  Andrew's  glass  with  Cinzano's  Asti 
Spumante  -  "is  worthy  of  the  man  who  saw  us  out 
at  Bourdon  Wood.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  after 
a  pause,  "what  really  happened  afterwards?  I  knew 
you  got  through.  But  we  poor  devils  of  gunners  — 
we  do  our  job  —  and  away  we  go  to  loose  off  Hell 
at  another  section  and  we  never  get  a  clear  knowledge 
of  the  results." 

"I'll  tell  you  in  a  minute,"  said  Andrew,  empty- 
ing the  salt  cellars  and  running  a  trench-making 
finger  through  the  salt,  and  disposing  pepper  pots, 
knives  and  spoons  and  supplementing  these  material 
objects  with  lead  pencil  lines  on  the  table-cloth  — 
all  vestiges  of  the  bouillabaisse  had  been  cleared  away 
-  "  You  see,  here  were  the  German  lines.  Here  were 
their  machine-guns." 

"And  my  little  lot,"  said  Arbuthnot,  tapping  a 
remote  corner,  "was  somewhere  over  here.' 

They  worked  out  the  taking  of  Bourdon  Wood. 
A  medallion  de  veau  perigourdine,  a  superimposition 
of  toast,  foie  gras,  veal  and  truffles,  interrupted  opera- 
tions. They  concluded  them,  more  languidly,  before 
the  cheese.  The  mild  mellow  Asti  softened  their 
hearts,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the  exquisite  meal,  in 
the  mingled  aroma  of  coffee,  a  cigarette,  and  the 
haunting  saltness  of  the  sea,  they  spoke  (with  An- 
drew's eternal  reserve)  like  brothers. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  223 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Arbuthnot,  "the  more  I 
talk  to  you  the  more  impossible  does  it  seem  that 
you  should  settle  down  to  your  pre-war  job.  Why 
don't  you  chuck  it  and  come  out  with  me  on  a  busi- 
ness footing?" 

"I  have  no  capital,"  said  Andrew. 

"You  don't  need  much  —  a  few  thousands." 

He  might  have  said  a  few  millions  for  all  Andrew's 
power  to  command  such  a  sum.  The  other  continued 
his  fairy-tale  of  the  islands.  They  were  going  to  boom 
one  of  these  near  days.  Fortune  lay  to  the  hand  of 
the  man  who  came  in  first.  Labour  was  cheap,  the 
world  was  shrieking  for  copra,  the  transport  difficulty 
would  soon  adjust  itself  —  and  then  a  dazzling  re- 
ward. It  was  quite  possible,  he  suggested  with  some 
delicacy,  to  find  financial  aid,  and  in  the  meantime 
to  do  management  work  on  a  salary,  so  as  to  keep 
himself  going.  The  qualities  which  made  him  a 
General  were  just  those  which  out  there  would  com- 
mand success.  And,  Australian  born,  as  he  was,  he 
could  claim  a  welcome  among  his  own  people. 

"I  can  guarantee  you  a  living,  anyhow,"  said  the 
enthusiast.  "Think  it  over,  and  let  me  know  before 
the  Osway  sails." 

It  was  a  great  temptation.  If  he  were  a  free  man, 
he  would  have  cast  off  the  garb  of  Petit  Patou  for 
ever  and  gone  to  seek  fortune  in  a  new  world  where 
he  could  unashamedly  use  his  own  name  and  mili- 
tary rank  among  men  who  did  men's  work  and 
thought  all  the  better  of  a  man  for  doing  the  same. 
And  also  he  became  conscious  of  a  longing  to  leave 
France  for  a  season.  France  was  passing  through  a 
post-war  stage  of  disgruntlement  and  suspicion,  draw- 
ing tight  around  her  feet  her  tri-coloured  skirts  so  that 
they  should  not  be  touched  by  the  passing  foreigner. 
France  was  bleeding  from  her  wounds  —  weeping 
for  her  children  and  refusing  to  be  comforted.  The 
Englishman  in  Andrew  stood  hurt  and  helpless  be- 
fore this  morbid,  convulsive  nationalism.  Like  a 


224  THE   MOUNTEBANK 

woman  in  certain  emotional  states  she  were  better 
left  alone  for  awhile,  till  she  recovered  and  smiled 
her  benevolent  graciousness  again. 

Yet  if  he  remained  Petit  Patou  he  must  stay  in 
France,  the  land  of  his  professional  adoption.  From 
appearing  on  the  English  stage  he  shrank,  with  mor- 
bid sensitiveness.  There  was  America,  where  he  was 
unknown.  .  .  .  Already  Moignon  was  in  touch,  on 
his  behalf,  with  powerful  American  agencies.  Just 
before  he  left  Paris  Moignon  had  said:  "They  are 
nibbling  for  the  winter."  But  it  was  all  vague. 
France  alone  appeared  solid  —  in  spite  of  the  disas- 
ters of  these  first  two  nights. 

"I  wish  to  God,"  he  cried  suddenly,  after  a  long 
silence,  "I  wish  to  God  I  could  cut  everything  and 
come  with  you." 

"What  prevents  you?"  asked  Arbuthnot. 

"I  have  ties,"  said  he. 

Arbuthnot  met  the  grim  look  on  his  face  which 
forbade  further  questioning. 

"Ah!"  said  he.  "Still,"  he  added  with  a  laugh, 
"I'm  at  the  Hotel  de  Noailles  till  Friday.  That  is 
to  say " 

He  explained  that  he  was  going  the  next  day  to 
Monte  Carlo,  which  he  had  never  seen,  to  spend  a 
night  or  two,  but  would  return  in  good  time  for  the 
sailing  of  the  Osway  and  the  hearing  of  General 
Lackaday's  final  decision. 

On  their  drive  back  to  Marseilles,  Arbuthnot, 
during  a  pause  in  their  talk,  said: 

"What  I  can't  understand  is  this.  If  you're  on 
the  music-hall  stage,  what  the  deuce  are  you  doing 
in  Marseilles?" 

"I'm  here  on  business  with  my  partner,"  Andrew 
replied  curtly.  "  If  it  weren't  for  that  —  a  business 
engagement  —  I  would  ask  you  to  spend  the  even- 
ing with  me,"  he  added.  "  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"I  went  to  the  theatre  last  night.  What  else  is 
there?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  225 

"They  have  an  excellent  Revue  at  the  El  Dorado. 
Go  there." 

"I  will,"  said  Arbuthnot. 

Andrew  breathed  freely,  relieved  from  the  dread 
lest  this  genial  and  unsuspecting  brother  in  arms 
should  wander  into  Olympia  and  behold  —  what? 
What  kind  of  a  performance?  What  kind  of  a  re- 
ception? All  apart  from  beholding  him  in  his  green 
silk  tights  and  painted  face. 

They  parted  at  the  Hotel  de  Noailles.  The  Aus- 
tralian shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"This  has  been  one  of  the  great  days  of  my  life," 
said  he,  with  his  frank  smile.  "The  day  when  I 
return  and  you  tell  me  you're  coming  with  me,  will 
be  a  greater." 

Andrew  walked  away  in  a  glow.  Here  was  a  man 
of  proved  worth,  proved  in  the  furnace  in  which  they 
had  met,  straight  as  his  eyes,  sincere  to  his  soul, 
who  had  claimed  him  as  a  leader  of  the  Great  Brother- 
hood, who,  with  a  generosity  acceptable  under  the 
unwritten  law  of  that  Brotherhood's  Freemasonry, 
had  opened  his  way  to  freedom  and  a  man's  life. 
Whether  he  could  follow  the  way  or  not  was  another 
matter.  The  fact  of  the  generous  opening  remained; 
a  heartening  thing  for  all  time. 

You  may  perhaps  remember  that,  in  the  intro- 
ductory letter  which  accompanied  the  manuscript 
and  is  quoted  at  the  beginning  of  this  record  of  the 
doings  of  Andrew  Lackaday,  he  remarks: 

"At  the  present  moment  I  am  between  the  devil 
and  the  deep  sea.  I  am  hoping  that  the  latter  will 
be  the  solution  of  my  difficulties." 

This  was  written  in  his  hotel  room,  as  soon  as  he 
returned.  Elodie,  unnerved  by  an  over-driven  den- 
tist's torture,  lay  resting  in  her  bedroom  with  closed 
windows  and  drawn  shutters.  He  was  between  the 
Devil  of  Petit  Patou-ism  and  the  Deep  Sea  beyond 
which  lay  the  Fortunate  Isles  where  men  were  men 
and  coco-nuts  were  gold  and  where  the  sweat  could 


226  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

roll  down  your  leather  skin  undefiled  with  grease- 
paint. 

When  he  had  finished  writing,  he  dined  with  a 
curiously  preoccupied  though  pain-relieved  Elodie. 
He  attributed  her  unusual  ^mood  either  to  anxiety 
as  to  their  reception  at  Olympia,  after  the  previous 
night's  performance,  or  to  realization  of  the  sig- 
nificance of  her  indiscretion.  She  ate  little,  drank 
less,  and  scarcely  spoke  at  all. 

They  reached  the  music-hall.  Andrew  changed 
into  his  tights.  The  little  dresser  retailed  the  gossip 
of  the  place.  Elodie  had  undoubtedly  caused  a 
sensation.  The  dresser  loudly  acclaimed  Madame's 
action  as  a  beau  geste. 

"In  these  days  of  advertisement  one  can't  afford 
to  be  so  modest,  mon  general,"  said  he.  "And  I,  for 
example,  who  committed  the  stupidity  of  asking 
whether  you  had  served  in  the  war!  To-night  we  are 
going  to  see  something  quite  different." 

Andrew  laughed.  Haunted  by  the  great  seas  and 
the  Solomon  Islands  and  the  palm  trees,  he  found 
himself  scarcely  interested  in  his  reception.  The 
audience  could  talk  and  cough  and  hiss  as  much  as 
they  liked.  He  had  practically  told  them  to  go  to 
the  devil  last  night.  He  was  quite  ready,  if  need  be, 
to  do  it  again.  He  was  buoyed  up  by  a  sublime 
indifference. 

The  singer  was  ending  her  encore  from  "  La  Travi- 
ata"  when  he  went  down  the  iron  stairs.  Elodie 
met  him  punctually,  for  they  had  agreed  to  avoid 
the  dreary  wait.  As  soon  as  the  stage  was  set  and 
the  curtain  up,  he  went  on  and  was  greeted  by  a 
round  of  applause.  Somehow  the  word  had  been 
passed  round  the  populace  that  formed  the  Olympia 
clientele.  Thenceforward  the  performance  went 
without  a  hitch,  to  the  attentive  gratification  of  the 
audience.  There  was  no  uproarious  demonstration; 
but  they  laughed  in  the  right  places  and  acclaimed 
satisfactorily  his  finale  on  the  giant  violin.  They 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  227 

gave  him  a  call,  to  which  he  responded,  leading 
Elodie  by  the  hand. 

For  himself,  he  hardly  knew  whether  to  feel  relief 
or  contempt,  but  Elodie,  blindly  stumbling  through 
the  cages  of  the  performing  dogs  in  the  wings,  almost 
broke  down. 

"Now  all  goes  well.     Confess  I  was  right." 

He  turned  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

"Yes.  I  confess.  You  did  what  was  right  to  make 
it  go  well." 

She  scanned  his  face  to  read  his  meaning.  Of  late 
he  had  grown  so  remote  and  difficult  to  understand. 
He  put  his  arm  round  her  kindly  and  smiled  —  and 
near  by  his  smile,  painted  to  the  upper  tip  of  each 
ear,  was  grotesquely  horrible. 

"Why  yes,  little  goose.  Now  everything  will  go 
on  wheels." 

"That  is  true?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

"I  swear  it,"  said  he. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel,  she  swiftly  discarded 
the  walking  clothes  and  slipped  on  her  wrapper  in 
which  only  was  she  the  real  Elodie,  and  went  to  his 
room  and  sat  on  the  little  narrow  bed. 

"Mon  ami,"  said  she,  "I  have  something  to  tell 
you.  I  would  not  speak  this  afternoon  because  it 
was  necessary  that  nothing  should  disturb  your 

rt  55 

performance. 

Andrew  lit  a  pipe  and  sat  down  in  the  straight- 
backed  arm-chair. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  I  had  to  wait  an  hour  at  the  dentist's.  Why  those 
people  say  one  o'clock  when  they  mean  two,  except 
to  make  you  think  they  are  so  busy  that  they  do 
you  a  favour  to  look  inside  your  mouth,  and  can 
charge  you  whatever  they  like  —  thirty  francs,  the 
monster  charged  me  —  you  ought  to  go  and  tell  him 
it  was  a  robbery  - 

"My  dear,"  he  interrupted,  thus  cutting  out  the 
predicate  of  her  rhetorical  sentence,  "you  surely 


228  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

couldn't  have  thought  a  dentist's  fee  of  thirty  francs 
would  have  put  me  off  my  work?" 

She  threw  up  her  arms.  "Mon  Dieu!  Men  are 
stupid!  No.  Listen.  I  had  to  wait  an  hour.  I  had 
to  distract  myself  —  well  —  you  know  the  supple- 
ment to  V Illustration  that  has  appeared  every  week 
during  the  war  —  the  pages  of  photographs  of  the 
heroes  of  France.  I  found  them  all  collected  in  a 
portfolio  on  the  table.  Ah!  Some  living,  but  mostly 
dead.  It  was  heart-breaking.  And  do  you  know  what 
I  found?  I  found  this.  I  stole  it." 

She  drew  from  her  pocket  peignoir  a  crumpled  page 
covered  with  vignette  photographs  of  soldiers,  a 
legend  underneath  each  one,  and  handed  it  to  An- 
drew, her  thumb  indicating  a  particular  portrait. 

"There!    Look!" 

And  Andrew  looked  and  beheld  the  photograph  of 
a  handsome,  vast  mustachioed,  rake-helly  officer  of 
Zouaves,  labelled  as  Captain  Raoul  Marescaux,  who 
had  died  gloriously  for  France  on  the  twenty-sixth 
of  March,  1917. 

For  a  second  or  two  he  groped  for  some  associa- 
tion with  a  far  distant  past. 

"But  don't  you  see?"  cried  Elodie.  "It  is  my 
husband.  He  has  been  dead  for  over  two  years." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

r  1 1HE  real  discussion  between  them  of  the  change 
that  the  death  of  Raoul  Marescaux  might 
-*-  bring  about  in  their  relations,  did  not  take 
place  till  the  next  day.  Each  felt  it  as  a  sudden 
shock  which,  as  in  two  chemicals  hitherto  mingling 
in  placid  fluidity,  might  cause  crystallization.  Up 
to  this  point,  the  errant  husband,  vanishing  years 
before  across  the  seas  in  company  with  a  little  modiste 
of  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine,  had  been  but  a  shadow, 
less  a  human  being  than  a  legal  technicality  which 
stood  in  way  of  their  marriage. 

Occasionally  during  the  war  each  had  contem- 
plated the  possibility  of  the  husband  being  killed. 
A  mere  fleeting  speculation.  As  Elodie  had  received 
no  official  news  of  his  death  —  which  is  astonishing 
in  view  of  the  French  Republic's  accuracy  in  tracing 
the  etat  civil  of  even  her  obscurest  citizens  —  she  pre- 
sumed that  he  was  still  alive  somewhere  in  the  Shadow 
Land  in  which  exist  monks  and  Papuans  and  swell- 
mobsmen  and  other  members  of  the  human  race  with 
whom  she  had  no  concern.  And  Andrew  had  been 
far  too  busy  to  give  the  fellow  whose  name  he  had  all 
but  forgotten,  more  than  a  passing  thought.  But 
now,  there  he  was,  dead,  officially  reported,  with 
picture  and  description  and  distinction  and  place 
and  date  all  complete.  The  shadow  had  melted  into 
the  definite  Eternity  of  Shadows. 

Andrew  rose  early,  dressed,  and,  according  to  his 
athletic  custom,  took  his  swinging  hour's  walk 
through  the  streets  still  fresh  with  the  lingering  cool- 
ness of  the  night,  and  then,  after  breakfast,  entered 
Elodie's  room.  But  she  was  still  fast  asleep.  She 
seldom  rose  till  near  midday.  It  was  only  after  lunch, 

229 


230  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

a  preoccupied  meal,  that  they  found  the  opportunity 
for  discussion,  in  the  little  stuffy  courtyard  of  the 
hotel,  set  round  with  dusty  tubs  of  aloes  and  screened 
with  a  trellis  of  discontented  vine.  They  sat  on  a 
rustic  bench  by  a  door  and  then  coffee  was  served 
on  a  blistered  iron  table  once  painted  yellow.  There 
were  many  flies  which  disturbed  the  slumbers  of  an 
old  mongrel  Newfoundland  sprawling  on  the  cobbles. 

And  there  he  put  to  her  the  proposition  which  he 
had  formulated  during  the  night. 

"My  dear,"  said  he,  "I  have  something  very  im- 
portant to  say  to  you.  You  will  listen  —  eh?  You 
won't  interrupt?" 

Coffee-cup  in  hand,  she  glanced  at  him  swiftly  be- 
fore she  sipped. 

"As  you  will." 

"Yesterday,"  said  he,  "I  met  a  comrade  of  the 
war,  a  Colonel  of  Australian  artillery.  I  lunched 
with  him,  as  you  know." 

"Biew,"  saidElodie. 

"I  had  a  long  talk  with  him.  He  made  certain 
propositions." 

He  repeated  his  conversation  with  Arbuthnot, 
described  at  second  hand  the  Solomon  Islands,  the 
beauties  of  reef  and  palm,  the  delights  of  a  new, 
free  life  and  laid  before  her  the  guarantee  of  a  com- 
petence and  the  possibilities  of  a  fortune.  As  he 
talked,  Elodie's  dark  face  grew  sullen  and  her  eyes 
hardened.  When  he  paused,  she  said: 

"  You  are  master  of  your  affairs.  If  you  wish  to  go, 
you  are  free.  I  have  no  right  to  say  anything." 

"You  don't  allow  me  to  finish,"  said  he,  smiling 
patiently.  "I  would  not  go  there  without  you." 

"Moi?"  She  shifted  round  on  her  seat  with 
Southern  excitability  and  pointed  her  finger  at  her 
bosom.  "I  go  to  the  other  end  of  the  world  and  live 
among  savages  and  Australians  who  don't  talk  French 
—  and  I  who  know  no  word  of  English  or  any  other 
savage  tongue?  No,  my  friend.  Ask  anything  else 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  231 

of  me  —  I  give  it  freely,  as  I  have  given  it  all  these 
years.  But  not  that." 

"You  would  go  with  me  as  my  wife,  Elodie.  We 
will  get  married." 

"Poiz//"  said  Elodie,  contemptuously. 

Without  any  knowledge  of  the  terminal  values  so 
precious  to  women,  Andrew  felt  a  vague  apprehen- 
sion lest  he  had  begun  at  the  wrong  end. 

"Surely,"  said  he,  by  way  of  reparation.  "The 
death  of  your  husband  makes  a  great  difference. 
Now  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  our  marriage." 

"There  is  everything  to  prevent  it,"  she  replied. 
"You  no  longer  love  me." 

"The  same  affection  exists,"  said  he,  "that  has 
always  been  between  us." 

"Then  we  go  on  leading  the  life  that  we  always 
have  led." 

"I  don't  think  it  very  satisfactory,"  said  Andrew. 

"  I  do,  if  it  pleases  us  to  remain  together,  we  re- 
main. If  we  want  to  say  'Good-bye'  we  are  free  to 
do  so." 

He  noticed  that  she  wrung  her  hands  nervously 
together. 

"You  don't  wish  to  say  'good-bye,'  Elodie?"  he 
asked  gently. 

"Oh,  no.  It  is  only  not  to  put  ourselves  into  the 
impossibility  of  saying  it." 

"While  you  live,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  "I  could 
never  say  it  to  you." 

"If  you  went  away  to  the  Antipodes,  you  would 
have  to  say  good-bye,  my  dear  Andre,  for  I  could  not 
accompany  you  —  never  in  life.  I  have  heard  of 
these  countries.  They  may  be  good  for  men,  but  for 
women  —  no.  Unless  one  is  archimillionaire,  one 
has  no  servants.  The  woman  has  to  keep  the  house 
and  wash  the  floor  and  cook  the  meals.  And  that  — 
you  know  well  —  I  can't  do.  It  may  be  selfish  and 
a  little  unworthy  but  mon  Dieu !  —  I  have  always 
been  frank  —  that's  how  I  am.  And  except  on  tour 


232  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

abroad  where  we  have  lived  in  hotels  where  every- 
body spoke  French  I  have  never  lived  out  of  France. 
That  is  what  I  was  always  saying  to  myself  when  you 
were  seeking  an  occupation.  'What  will  happen  to 
me  if  he  does  get  a  foreign  appointment?'  I  was 
afraid,  oh,  terribly  afraid.  But  I  said  nothing  to 
you.  I  loved  you  too  much.  But  now  it  is  neces- 
sary for  me  to  tell  you  what  I  have  in  my  heart. 
You  are  free  to  go  to  what  wild  island  you  like  — 
that  is  why  it  would  be  absurd  for  us  to  marry  — 
but  it  would  be  all  finished  between  us." 

"That  couldn't  be,"  said  Andrew.  "What  would 
become  of  you?" 

She  averted  her  head  and  said  abruptly,  "Don't 
think  of  it." 

"  But  I  must  think  of  it.    During  the  war " 

"During  the  war,  it  was  different.  A  la  guerre 
comme  a  la  guerre.  We  knew  it  could  not  last  for  ever. 
You  loved  me.  It  was  natural  for  me  to  accept  the 
support  of  mon  homme,  like  all  other  women.  But 
now,  if  you  leave  me  —  no.  N-i-n-i,  nini,  c'estfini." 

So  all  Andrew's  beautiful  dreams  faded  into  mist. 
He  rose  and  crossed  the  little  cobbled  courtyard  and 
looked  out  for  a  while  into  the  shabby  by-street  in 
which  the  hotel  was  situated.  That  Elodie  should 
accompany  him  was  the  only  feasible  way,  from 
the  pecuniary  point  of  view,  of  carrying  out  the  vague 
scheme. 

It  would  be  a  life,  at  first,  of  some  roughness  and 
privation.  Arbuthnot  had  laid  the  financial  side 
quite  clearly  before  him.  He  could  not  expect  to  land 
on  the  Solomon  Islands  without  capital  (and  even  a 
borrowed  capital)  and  expect  an  income  of  a  thousand 
pounds  a  year  to  drop  into  his  mouth.  If  Elodie, 
although  refusing  to  accompany  him,  would  accept 
his  allowance,  that  allowance,  would,  of  arithmetical 
necessity,  be  far,  far  less  than  she  had  enjoyed  during 
the  war.  Besides,  although  he  was  bound  tentatively 
to  suggest  it,  he  knew  the  odd  pride,  the  rod  of  steel 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  233 

through  her  nature,  which  he  had  come  up  against, 
to  his  own  great  advantage,  time  after  time  during 
their  partnership,  and  he  would  have  been  the  most 
astonished  man  in  the  world  had  she  answered  other- 
wise. 

Yes,  the  dream  of  coco-nuts  and  pearls  had  melted. 
She  was  right.  Even  had  she  consented,  she  would 
have  been  a  ghastly  failure  in  pioneer  Colonial  life. 
Their  existence  would  have  been  mildewed  and  moth- 
eaten  with  misery.  She  knew  herself  and  her  limita- 
tions. To  go  and  leave  her  to  starve  or  earn  a  pre- 
carious livelihood  with  her  birds,  on  this  post-war 
music-hall  stage  avid  for  novelty  of  sensation,  were 
an  act  as  dastardly  as  that  of  the  late  Raoul  Mares- 
caux  who  planted  her  there  on  the  platform  of  the 
Gare  St.  Lazare  while  he  was  on  his  ways  overseas 
with  the  modiste  of  the  Place  de  la  Madeleine. 

He  turned  to  find  her  dabbing  her  eyes  with  a 
couple  of  square  inches  of  chiffon  which,  in  spite  of 
its  exiguity,  had  smeared  the  powder  on  her  face. 
He  sat  down  beside  her,  with  his  patient  smile,  and 
took  her  hand  and  patted  it. 

"Come,  come,  my  little  Elodie.  I  am  not  going 
to  leave  you.  It  was  only  an  idea.  If  it  had  at- 
tracted you,  well  and  good.  But  as  it  doesn't,  let 
us  say  no  more  about  it." 

"I  don't  want  to  hinder  you  in  your  life,  Andre," 
she  said  brokenly.  "Qame  donne  beaucoup  de  peine. 
But  you  see,  don't  you,  that  I  couldn't  do  it?" 

He  soothed  her  as  best  he  could.  Les  Petit  Patou 
would  invent  new  business,  of  a  comicality  that  would 
once  more  make  their  fortunes.  That  being  so,  why 
should  they  not  be  married? 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly.  "You  desire  it  as 
much  as  that?" 

"  I  desire  earnestly,"  said  he,  "to  do  what  is  right." 

"Are  you  sure  that  it  doesn't  come  from  the  re- 
spectability of  an  English  General?" 

"I  don't  know  how  it  comes,"  he  replied,  hiding 


234  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

the  sting  of  the  shrewd  thrust  with  a  laugh,  "but 
it's  there,  all  the  same." 

"Well,  I'll  think  of  it,"  said  Elodie,  "but  give  me 
time.  Ne  m'embete  pas." 

He  promised  not  to  worry  her.  "But  tell  me," 
he  said,  after  a  few  moments'  perplexity,  "why  were 
you  so  agitated  all  yesterday  after  you  had  seen  that 
photograph?" 

Elodie  let  her  hand  fall  on  her  lap  and  regarded 
him  with  pitying  astonishment.  "  Mon  Dieu  !  What 
do  you  expect  a  woman  to  be  when  she  learns  that 
her  husband,  whom  she  thinks  alive,  has  been  killed 
two  years  ago?" 

Andrew  gave  it  up. 

On  the  morning  of  the  sailing  of  the  Osway  from 
Marseilles,  he  called  on  Arbuthnot  at  the  Hotel  de 
Noailles,  and  told  him  of  his  decision. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Arbuthnot,  "as  sorry  as  I  can 
be.  But  in  case  you  care  to  change  your  mind, 
here's  my  card." 

"And  here's  mine,"  said  Andrew,  and  he  handed 
him  his  card  thus  inscribed. 


MONSIEUR  PATOU 
(Combinaison  des  Petit  Patou) 
3  rue  Falda 

Faubourg  Saint-Denis 
Paris 


Arbuthnot  looked  from  the  card  to  Andrew  and 
from  Andrew  to  the  card,  in  some  perplexity. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I've  seen  your  bills  about  the 
town.  You're  playing  here!  Why  the  deuce  didn't 
you  let  me  know?" 

"  I  gave  a  better  performance  at  Bourdon  Wood," 
said  Andrew. 

Now  hereabouts,  I  ought  to  say,  the  famous  manu- 
script ends.  Indeed,  this  late  Marseilles  part  of  it 
was  very  hurried  and  sketchy.  The  main  object 
which  he  had  in  view  —  or  rather  which,  in  the  first 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  235 

inception  of  the  idea,  I  had  suggested  he  should  have 
in  view  —  namely,  "to  interest,  perhaps  encourage, 
at  any  rate  to  stimulate  the  thoughts  of  many  of  my 
old  comrades  who  have  been  placed  in  the  same 
predicament  as  myself"  (as  he  says  in  the  letter  which 
accompanied  the  manuscript)  he  had  abandoned  as 
hopeless.  He  had  merely  jotted  things  down  helter- 
skelter,  diary  fashion.  I  have  had  to  supplement 
these  notes  from  his  letters  and  from  the  confidential 
talks  which  we  had,  not  very  long  after  he  had  left 
Marseilles. 

From  these  letters  and  these  talks  also,  it  appears 
that  the  tour  booked  by  Mpignon  did  not  prove  the 
disastrous  failure  prognosticated  by  the  first  two 
nights  at  Marseilles.  Nowhere  did  he  meet  a  pre- 
war enthusiasm;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  nowhere 
did  he  encounter  the  hostility  of  the  Marseilles  au- 
dience. At  Lyons,  owing  to  certain  broad  effects, 
which  he  knew  of  old  to  be  acceptable  to  that  unique, 
hard-headed,  full-bellied,  tradition-bound  bourgeoisie, 
he  had  an  encouraging  success.  He  felt  the  old  power 
return  to  him  —  the  power  of  playing  on  the  audi- 
ence as  on  a  musical  instrument.  But  at  Saint- 
Etienne  —  a  town  of  operatives  —  the  performance 
went  disappointingly  flat.  Before  a  dull  or  discon- 
tented audience  he  stood  helpless.  No,  the  old  mag- 
netic power  had  gone. 

However,  he  had  recovered  the  faculty  of  making 
his  livelihood  somehow  or  other  as  Petit  Patou, 
which,  he  began  desperately  to  feel,  was  all  that 
mattered.  His  soul  revolted,  but  his  will  prevailed. 
Elodie  accompanied  him  in  serene  content,  more 
flaccid  and  slatternly  than  ever  in  her  hotel  room, 
keenly  efficient  on  the  stage. 

Now  it  happened  that,  a  while  later,  during  a  visit 
to  some  friends  in  Shropshire  who  have  nothing  to 
do  with  this  story,  I  broke  down  in  health.  I  have 
told  you  before,  that  liaison  work  during  the  war 
had  put  out  of  action  the  elderly  crock  that  is  Anthony 


236  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Hylton.  Doctors  drew  undertakers'  faces  between 
the  tubes  of  their  stethoscopes  as  they  jabbed  about 
my  heart,  and  raised  their  eyebrows  over  my  blood 
pressure. 

Just  at  this  time  I  had  a  letter  from  Lackaday. 
Incidentally  he  mentioned  that  he  was  appearing  in 
August  at  Clermont-Ferrand  and  that  Horatio  Bak- 
kus  (who,  in  his  new  prosperity,  could  afford  to  choose 
times  and  seasons)  had  arranged  to  accept  a  syn- 
chronous engagement  at  the  Casino  of  Royat. 

So  while  my  medical  advisers  were  wringing  their 
hands  over  the  practical  inaccessibility  and  the  lack 
of  amenity  of  Nauheim,  whither  they  had  despatched 
me  unwilling  in  dreary  summers  before  the  war, 
and  while  they  were  suggesting  even  more  depressing 
health  resorts  in  the  British  Isles,  it  occurred  to  me 
to  ask  them  whether  Royat-les-Bains  did  not  con- 
tain broken-down  heart  repairing  works  of  the  first 
order.  They  brightened  up. 

"  The  place  of  all  places, '  said  they. 

"Write  me  a  chit  to  a  doctor  there,"  said  I,  "and 
I'm  off  at  once." 

I  did  not  care  much  about  my  heart.  It  has  always 
been  playing  me  tricks  from  the  day  I  fell  in  love  with 
my  elder  sister's  French  governess.  But  I  did  care 
about  seeing  my  friend  Lackaday  in  his  reincarnation 
as  Petit  Patou,  and  I  was  most  curious  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  Elodie  and  Horatio  Bakkus. 

Soon  afterwards,  therefore,  behold  me  on  my  way 
to  Clermont-Ferrand,  of  which  manufacturing  town 
Royat  is  a  suburb. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WITHOUT  desiring  to  interfere  with  the  sale 
of  guide-books,  I  may  say  that  Clermont- 
Ferrand  is  a  great  big  town,  the  principal 
city  of  Auvergne,  and  devotes  itself  to  turning  out 
all  sorts  of  things  from  its  factories  such  as  Michelin 
and  Berguignan  tyres,  and  all  sorts  of  young  lawyers, 
doctors  and  schoolmasters  from  its  university.  It 
proudly  claims  Blaise  Pascal  as  its  distinguished  son. 
It  has  gardens  and  broad  walks  and  terraces  along 
the  old  ramparts,  whence  one  can  see  the  round- 
backed  pride  (with  its  little  pip  on  the  top)  of  the 
encircling  mountain  range,  the  Puy  de  Dome;  and 
it  also  has  a  wilderness  of  smelly,  narrow  little  streets 
with  fine  old  seventeenth-century  mansions  hidden 
in  mouldering  court-yards  behind  dilapidated  portes 
cocheres;  it  has  a  beautiful  romanesque  Church  in 
a  hollow,  and,  on  an  eminence,  an  uninteresting 
restored  cathedral  whose  twin  spires  dominate  the 
town  for  miles  around.  By  way  of  a  main  entrance, 
it  has  a  great  open  square,  the  Place  de  Jaude,  the 
clanging  ganglion  of  its  tramway  system,  about 
which  are  situated  the  municipal  theatre  and  the 
chief  cafes,  and  from  which  radiate  the  main  arteries 
of  the  city.  On  the  entrance  side  rises  a  vast  mass 
of  sculpture  surmounted  by  a  statue  of  Vercingetorix, 
the  hero  of  those  parts,  the  gentleman  over  whose 
name  we  have  all  broken  our  teeth  when  learning  to 
construe  Caesar  "  De  Bello  Gallico"  Passing  him  by  for 
the  first  time,  I  should  have  liked  to  shake  hands  with 
him  for  old  times'  sake,  to  show  my  lack  of  ill  feeling. 
Now  that  you  all  know  about  Clermont-Ferrand, 
as  the  ancient  writers  say,  I  will  tell  you  about  Royat. 
You  take  a  tram  from  Vercingetorix  and  after  a 

237 


238  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

straight  mile  you  are  landed  at  the  foot  of  a  cup  of 
the  aforesaid  encircling  mountains,  and,  looking 
around,  when  the  tram  refuses  to  go  any  further 
owing  to  lack  of  rails,  you  perceive  that  you  are  in 
Royat-les-Bains.  It  consists,  on  the  ground  floor, 
as  it  were,  of  a  white  Etablissement  des  Bains  sur- 
rounded by  a  little  park,  which  is  fringed  on  the 
further  side  by  an  open-air  concert  platform  and  a 
theatre,  of  a  few  rows  of  shops,  and  a  couple  of  cafes. 
You  could  play  catch  with  a  cricket  ball  across  it. 
The  hotels  are  perched  around  on  the  slopes  of  the 
hills,  so  that  you  may  enter  stately  portals  among 
the  shops,  but  shall  be  whirled  upwards  in  a  lift  to 
the  main  floor,  whence  you  look  down  on  the  green 
and  tidy  miniature  place. 

From  my  room  in  the  Royat  Palace  Hotel  I  had  a 
view  across  the  Park,  beyond  which  I  could  see  the 
black  crowds  pouring  out  of  the  Clermont-Ferrand 
trams.  The  reason  for  this  frenzied  going  and  coming 
of  human  beings  between  Clermont-Ferrand  and 
Royat,  I  could  never  understand.  I  believe  tram- 
riding  is  a  hideous  vice.  Just  connect  up  by  tram- 
lines a  place  no  one  ever  wants  to  go  to  with  another 
no  one  ever  wants  to  go  from,  and  in  a  week  you  will 
have  the  inhabitants  of  those  respective  Sleepy  Hol- 
lows running  to  and  fro  with  the  strenuous  aimless- 
ness  of  ants.  Progressive  politicians  will  talk  to  you 
of  the  wonders  of  transport.  Well,  transport  or  mad- 
ness, what  does  it  matter?  I  mean  what  does  it 
matter  to  the  course  of  this  narrative? 

I  had  a  pleasant  room,  I  say,  with  a  good  view 
blocked  above  the  tram  terminus  by  a  vine-clad 
mountain.  I  called  on  a  learned  gentleman  who 
knew  all  about  hearts  and  blood  pressures,  he  pre- 
scribed baths  and  unpleasant  waters,  and  my  cure 
began.  All  this  by  way  of  preamble  to  the  statement 
that  I  had  comfortably  settled  down  in  Royat  a 
week  before  Les  Petit  Patou  were  billed  to  appear 
in  Clermont-Ferrand.  Having  nothing  in  the  world 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  239 

to  do  save  attend  to  my  internal  organs,  I  spent  much 
time  in  the  old  town,  which  I  had  not  visited  for  many 
years,  match-hunting  (with  indifferent  success)  being 
at  first  my  main  practical  pursuit.  Then  a  natural 
curiosity  leading  me  to  enquire  the  whereabouts  of 
the  chief  music-halls  and  vacant  ignorance  mani- 
festing itself  on  the  faces  of  the  policemen  and  waiters 
whom  I  interrogated,  I  abandoned  matches  for  the 
chase  of  music-halls.  Eventually  I  became  aware 
that  I  was  pursuing  a  phantom.  There  were  no 
music-halls.  All  had  been  perverted  into  picture 
palaces.  I  read  Lackaday's  letter  again.  There  it 
was  as  clear  as  print. 

"So  we  proceed  on  our  pilgrimage;  we  are  booked 
for  Clermont-Ferrand  for  the  third  week  in  August. 
I  hate  it  —  because  I  hate  it.  But  I'm  looking  for- 
ward to  it  because  my  now  prosperous  friend  Bakkus 
has  arranged  to  sing  during  my  stay  there,  at  the 
Casino  of  Roy  at." 

And  sure  enough  the  next  day,  they  stuck  up  bills 
by  the  park  gates  announcing  the  coming  of  the 
celebrated  tenor,  Monsieur  Horatio  Bakkus. 

It  was  only  later  that  the  great  flaming  poster  of 
a  circus  —  The  Cirque  Vendramin  —  which  had 
pitched  its  tent  for  a  fortnight  past  at  Clermont- 
Ferrand,  caught  my  eye.  There  it  was,  amid  an- 
nouncements of  all  sorts  of  clowns  and  trapezists  and 
Japanese  acrobats: 

'  Special  engagement  of  the  world  famed  eccentrics, 
Les  Petit  Patou." 

If  I  uttered  profane  words,  I  am  sure  the  Recording 
Angel  followed  an  immortal  precedent. 

In  order  to  spy  out  the  land,  I  went  then  and  there 
to  the  afternoon  performance.  The  circus  was  pitched 
in  a  disgruntled  field  somewhere  near  the  dismally 
remote  railway  station.  The  tent  was  crowded  with 
the  good  inhabitants  of  Clermont-Ferrand  who,  since 
they  could  not  buy  sugar  or  matches  or  coal  for  cook- 
ing, must  spend  their  money  somewhere.  I  scarcely 


240  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

had  entered  a  circus  since  the  good  old  days  of  the 
Cirque  Rocambeau.  And  what  a  difference!  They 
had  a  few  uninspiring  horses  and  riders  for  conven- 
tion sake.  But  the  haute  ecole  had  vanished.  Not 
even  a  rouged  and  painted  ghost  of  Mademoiselle 
Renee  Saint-Maur  remained.  It  was  a  ragged,  old- 
fashioned  acrobatic  entertainment,  with  the  mil- 
dewed humour  of  antiquated  clowns.  But  they  had 
a  star  turn  —  a  juggler  of  the  school  of  Cinquevallis 
—  an  amazing  fellow.  And  then  I  remembered  hav- 
ing seen  the  name  on  the  last  week's  bill,  printed 
in  the  great  eighteen  inch  letters  which  were  now 
devoted  to  Les  Petit  Patou. 

Next  week  Lackaday  would  be  the  star  turn.  But 
still  .  .  . 

I  went  back  to  Royat  feeling  miserable.  I  was  not 
elated  by  finding  a  letter  from  Lady  Auriol  which 
had  been  forwarded  from  my  St.  James's  Street 
chambers.  She  was  in  Paris  organising  something 
in  connection  with  the  devastated  districts.  She 
reproached  me  for  not  having  answered  a  letter  writ- 
ten a  month  ago,  written  at  her  ancestral  home  where 
she  had  been  summoned  to  her  father's  gouty  chair 
side.  I  might,  she  said,  have  had  the  politeness  to 
send  a  line  of  condolence.  .  .  .  Well,  I  might:  but 
whether  to  her  or  to  Lord  Mountshire,  whose  gout 
was  famous  in  the  early  nineties,  I  did  not  know. 
Yes,  I  ought  to  have  answered  her  letter.  But  then, 
you  see,  I  am  a  villainous  correspondent:  I  was 
running  about,  and  doctors  were  worrying  me:  and 
I  could  not  have  answered  without  lying  about  An- 
drew Lackaday  who,  leaving  her  without  news  of 
himself,  had  apparently  vanished  from  her  ken.  She 
had  asked  me  all  sorts  of  pointed  questions  about 
Lackaday  which  I,  having  by  that  time  read  his 
manuscript,  found  very  embarrassing  to  answer. 
Of  course  I  intended  to  write.  One  always  does, 
in  such  cases.  There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but 
to  make  immediate  and  honourable  amends. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  241 

I  explained  my  lack  of  courtesy,  as  best  I  could, 
bewailed  her  father's  gout  and  her  dreary  ministra- 
tions on  that  afflicted  nobleman,  regretted  inci- 
dentally her  lack  of  news  of  the  gallant  General  and 
spread  myself  over  my  own  sufferings  and  my  bore- 
dom in  a  little  hole  of  a  place,  where  no  one  was  to 
be  seen  under  the  age  of  seventy-three  —  drew,  I 
flattered  myself,  rather  a  smart  picture  of  the  use- 
less and  gasping  ancients  flocking  pathetically  to 
the  futile  Fons  Juventutis  (and  what  business  had 
they  to  be  alive  anyhow  during  this  world  food 
shortage?)  and  then,  commending  her  devotion  to 
the  distressed  and  homeless,  expressed  the  warm 
hope  that  I  should  meet  her  in  Paris  on  my  way 
back  to  England. 

It  was  the  letter  of  a  friend  and  a  man  of  the 
world.  It  put  me  into  a  better  humour  with  myself. 
I  dined  well  on  the  broad  terrace  of  the  hotel,  smoked 
a  cigar  in  defiance  of  doctor's  orders,  and  after  an 
instructive  gastronomical  discussion  with  a  com- 
fortable old  Bordeaux  merchant  with  whom  I  had 
picked  acquaintance,  went  to  bed  in  a  selfishly 
contented  frame  of  mind. 

Two  or  three  mornings  later,  going  by  tram  into 
Clermont-Ferrand  and  passing  by  the  great  cafe  on 
the  east  side  of  the  Place  de  Jaude  opposite  the 
statue  of  Vercingetorix,  I  ran  literally,  stumbling 
over  long  legs  outstretched  from  his  chair  to  the 
public  danger,  into  Andrew  Lackaday.  It  was  only 
at  the  instant  of  disentanglement  and  mutual 
apologies  that  we  were  aware  of  each  other.  He 
sprang  to  his  great  height  and  held  out  both  his 
long  arms,  and  grinned  happily. 

"My  dear  fellow,  what  a  delight.  Fancy  seeing 
you  here!  Elodie- 

If  he  had  given  me  time,  I  should  have  recognized 
her  before  he  spoke.  There  she  was  in  the  flesh  — 
in  a  great  deal  of  flesh  —  more  even  than  I  had 
pictured.  She  had  a  coarse,  dark  face,  with  the 


242  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

good  humour  written  on  it  that  loose  features  and 
kind  soft  eyes  are  able  so  often  to  express  —  and 
white  teeth  rather  too  much  emphasized  by  car- 
mined  lips  above  which  grew  the  faint  black  down 
of  many  women  of  the  South.  She  was  dressed 
quite  tastefully:  white  felt  hat,  white  skirt,  and  a 
silken  knitted  yellow  chandail. 

"Elodie  —  I  present  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Hyl- 
ton,  of  whom  you  have  heard  me  speak  so  much." 
To  me  —  "Madame  Patou,"  said  he. 

"Madame,"  said  I.  We  shook  hands.  I  pro- 
fessed enchantment. 

"  I  have  spoken  much  about  you  to  Captain  Hyl- 
ton,"  said  Lackaday  quickly. 

"So  it  seems,"  said  I,  following  the  good  fellow's 
lead,  "as  if  I  were  renewing  an  old  acquaintance." 

"But  you  speak  French  like  a  Frenchman," 
cried  Elodie. 

"It  is  my  sole  claim,  Madame,"  said  I,  "to  your 
consideration." 

She  laughed,  obviously  pleased,  and  invited  me  to 
sit.  The  waiter  came  up.  What  would  I  have?  I 
murmured  "Amer  Picon  —  Curagoa,"  the  most  de- 
lectable ante-meal  beverage  left  in  France  now  that 
absinthe  is  as  extinct  as  the  stuff  wherewith  the 
good  Vercingetorix  used  to  gladden  his  captains 
after  a  successful  bout  with  Caesar.  Elodie  laughed 
again  and  called  me  a  true  Parisian.  I  made  the 
regulation  reply  to  the  compliment.  I  could  see  that 
we  became  instant  friends. 

"Mais,  mon  cher  ami,"  said  Lackaday,  "you 
haven't  answered  my  question.  What  are  you  doing 
here  in  Clermont-Ferrand?" 

"Didn't  I  write  to  you?" 

"No " 

I  hadn't.  I  had  meant  to  —  just  as  I  had  meant 
to  write  to  Auriol  Dayne. 

I  wonder  whether,  in  that  Final  Court  from  which 
I  have  not  heard  of  any  theologian  suggesting  the 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  243 

possibility  of  Appeal,  they  will  bring  up  against  me 
all  the  unanswered  letters  of  my  life?  If  they  do, 
then  certainly  shall  I  be  a  Condemned  Spirit. 

I  explained  airily  —  just  as  I  have  explained  to 
you. 

"Concidences  of  the  heart,  Madame,"  said  I. 

She  turned  to  Andrew.  "He  has  said  that  just 
like  Horace." 

I  realized  the  compliment.  I  liked  Elodie.  Dress 
her  at  whatever  Rue  de  la  Paix  rag-swindler's  that 
you  pleased,  you  would  never  metamorphose  the 
daughter  of  the  people  that  she  was  into  the  lady 
at  ease  in  all  company.  She  was  a  bit  mannieree  — 
on  her  best  behaviour.  But  she  had  the  French- 
woman's instinctive  knowledge  of  conduct.  She 
conveyed,  very  charmingly,  her  welcome  to  me  as 
a  friend  of  Andrew's. 

"  Horace  —  that's  my  friend  Bakkus  I've  told  you 
about,"  said  Lackaday.  "He'll  be  here  to-morrow. 
I  should  so  much  like  you  to  meet  him." 

"I'm  looking  forward,"  said  I,  "to  the  oppor- 
tunity." 

We  talked  on  indifferent  subjects;  and  in  the 
meanwhile  I  observed  Lackaday  closely.  He  seemed 
tired  and  careworn.  The  bush  of  carroty  hair  over 
his  ears  had  gone  a  yellowish  grey  and  more  lines 
seamed  his  ugly  and  rugged  face.  He  was  neatly 
enough  dressed  in  grey  flannels,  but  he  wore  on  his 
head  the  latest  model  of  a  French  straw  hat  —  the 
French  hatter,  left  to  his  own  devices,  has  ever  been 
the  maddest  of  his  tribe  —  a  high,  coarsely  woven 
crown  surrounded  by  a  quarter  inch  brim  which 
related  him  much  more  nearly  to  Petit  Patou  than 
to  the  British  General  of  Brigade.  His  delicate 
fingers  nervously  played  with  cigarette  or  glass 
stem.  He  gave  me  the  impression  of  a  man  holding 
insecurely  on  to  intelligible  life. 

Mild  hunger  translating  itself  into  a  conception 
of  the  brain,  I  looked  at  my  watch.  I  waved  a  hand 


244  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

to  the  row  of  waiting  cabs  with  linen  canopies  on  the 
other  side  of  the  blazing  square. 

"Madame,"  said  I,  "let  me  have  the  pleasure  of 
driving  you  to  Roy  at  and  offering  you  dejeuner" 

"My  dear  chap,"  said  Andrew,  "impossible.  We 
play  this  afternoon.  Twice  a  day,  worse  luck.  We 
have  all  sorts  of  things  to  arrange." 

Elodie  broke  in.  They  had  arranged  everything 
already  that  morning.  Their  turn  did  not  arrive 
till  three-forty.  There  was  time  for  a  dozen  lunches; 
especially  since  she  would  go  early  and  see  that 
everything  was  prepared.  She  excused  herself  to  me 
in  the  charmingest  way  possible.  Another  day  she 
might  perhaps,  with  my  permission,  have  the  pleas- 
ure. But  to-day  she  insisted  on  Andre  lunching  with 
me  alone.  We  must  have  a  thousand  things  to  say 
to  each  other. 

"  Tenez"  she  smiled,  rising.  "  I  leave  you.  There's 
not  a  word  to  be  said.  Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  see 
that  the  General  eats  instead  of  talking  too  much." 
She  beamed.  "Aw  grand  plaisir  de  vous  revoir." 

We  stood  bare-headed  and  shook  hands  and 
watched  her  make  a  gracious  exit.  As  soon  as  she 
crossed  the  tram-lines,  she  turned  and  waved  her 
fingers  at  me. 

"A  charming  woman,"  said  I. 

Lackaday  smiled  in  his  sad  babyish  way. 

"  Indeed  she  is,"  said  he. 

We  drove  into  Royat  in  one  of  the  cool,  white 
canopied  victorias. 

"You  know  we  are  playing  in  a  circus,"  he  said, 
indicating  a  huge  play  bill  on  the  side  of  a  wall. 

"Yes,"  said  I.  '  On  revient  toujours  a  ses premieres 
amours." 

"It's  not  that,  God  knows,"  he  replied  soberly. 
"  But  we  were  out  for  these  two  weeks  of  our  tour. 
One  can't  pick  and  choose  nowadays.  The  eccentric 
comedian  will  soon  be  as  dead  as  his  ancestor,  the 
Court  Jester.  The  war  has  almost  wiped  us  out. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  245 

Those  music-halls  —  of  the  Variety  type  —  that  have 
not  been  turned,  through  lack  of  artists,^into  pic- 
ture palaces,  are  now  given  over  to  Revue.  I  have 
been  here  at  Clermont-Ferrand  many  tunes  —  but 
now, "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  had  an  engage- 
ment—  at  my  ordinary  music-hall  terms  —  offered 
me  at  the  Cirque  Vendramin  to  fill  in  the  blank 
weeks,  and  I  couldn't  afford  to  refuse.  That's  why, 
my  friend,  you  see  me  now,  where  you  first  met  me, 
in  a  circus.' 

"And  Madame  Patou?"  said  I. 

"I'm  afraid,"  he  sighed,  "it  is  rather  a  come  down 
for  Elodie." 

We  reached  the  hotel  and  lunched  on  the  terrace, 
and  I  did  my  best,  with  the  aid  of  the  maitre  d'hotel, 
to  carry  out  the  lady's  injunctions.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  need  not  have  feared  that  he  should  miss 
sustenance  through  excessive  garrulity.  He  seemed 
ill  at  ease  during  the  meal  and  I  did  most  of  the 
talking.  It  was  only  after  coffee  and  the  last  drop 
of  the  last  bottle  in  the  hotel  —  one  of  the  last, 
alas!  in  France  —  of  the  real  ancient  Chartreuse  of 
the  Grand  Chartreux,  that  he  made  some  sort  of 
avowal  or  explanation.  After  beating  about  the 
bush  a  bit,  he  came  to  the  heart  of  the  matter. 

"  I  thought  the  whole  war  was  axed  out  of  my  life 
—  with  everyone  I  knew  in  it  or  through  it.  I 
wrote  all  that  stuff  about  myself  because  I  couldn't 
help  it.  It  enabled  me  to  find  my  balance,  to  keep 
myself  sane.  I  had  to  bridge  over  —  connect  some- 
how —  the  Andrew  Lackaday  of  1914  with  the  An- 
drew Lackaday  of  1919.  A  couple  of  months  ago, 
I  thought  of  sending  it  to  you.  You  know  my  be- 
ginnings and  my  dear  old  father  Ben  Flint  and  so 
forth.  You  came  bang  into  the  middle  of  my 
most  intimate  life.  I  knew  in  what  honour  and 
affection  you  were  held  among  those  whom  I  —  to 
whom  I  —  am  infinitely  devoted.  I  ..."  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  tugged  hard  at  his  cigar  and 


246  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

regarded  me  with  bent  brows  and  compressed  lips 
of  his  parade  manner.  "I  am  a  man  of  few  friend- 
ships. I  gave  you  my  unreserved  friendship  —  it 
may  not  be  worth  much  —  but  there  it  is.'  He 
glared  at  me  as  though  he  were  defying  me  to  mortal 
combat,  and  when  I  tried  to  get  in  a  timid  word  he 
wiped  it  out  of  my  mouth  with  a  gesture.  "  I  wanted 
you  to  know  the  whole  truth  about  me.  Once  I 
never  thought  about  myself.  I  wasn't  worth  think- 
ing about.  But  the  war  came.  And  the  war  ended. 
And  I'm  so  upside  down  that  I'm  bound  to  think 
about  myself  and  clear  up  myself,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
only  human  being  that  could  understand  —  namely 
you  —  or  go  mad.  But  I  never  reckoned  to  see  you 
again  in  the  flesh.  Our  lives  were  apart  as  the  poles. 
It  was  in  my  head  to  write  to  you  something  to  that 
effect,  when  I  should  receive  an  answer  to  my  last 
letter.  I  never  dreamed  that  you  should  meet  me 
now,  as  I  am." 

"It  never  occurred  to  you  that  I  might  value 
your  friendship  and  take  a  little  trouble  to  seek  you 
out?" 

"I  must  confess,"  said  he,  "that  I  did  not  suspect 
that  anyone,  even  you,  would  have  thought  it  worth 
while." 

I  laughed.  He  was  such  a  delicious  simpleton.  So 
long  as  he  could  regard  me  as  someone  on  the  other 
side  of  the  grave,  he  could  reveal  to  me  the  intimacies 
of  his  emotional  life;  but  as  soon  as  he  realized  his 
confidant  in  the  flesh,  embarrassment  and  confusion 
overwhelmed  him.  And,  ostrich  again,  thinking 
that,  once  his  head  was  hidden  in  the  sands  of  Petit 
Patouism,  he  would  be  invisible  to  mortal  eye,  he 
had  persjiaded  himself  that  his  friends  would  con- 
cur in  his  supposed  invisibility. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  I  said,  "why  all  this  apologia? 
As  to  your  having  ever  told  me  or  written  to  me 
about  yourself  I  have  kept  the  closest  secrecy.  Not 
a  human  soul  knows  through  me  the  identity  of 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  247 

General  Lackaday  with  Petit  Patou.  No,"  I  re- 
peated, meeting  his  eyes  under  his  bent  brows,  "not 
a  human  being  knows  even  of  our  first  meeting  in 
the  Cirque  Rocambeau —  and  as  for  Madame 
Patou,  whom  you  have  made  me  think  of  always 
as  Elodie  —  well  —  my  discretion  goes  without  say- 
ing. And  as  for  putting  into  shape  your  reminiscences 
—  I  shouldn't  dream  of  letting  anyone  see  my  manu- 
script before  it  had  passed  through  your  hands.  If 
you  like  I'll  tear  the  whole  thing  up  and  it  will  all 
be  buried  in  that  vast  oblivion  of  human  affairs  of 
which  I  am  only  too  temperamentally  capable." 

He  threw  his  cigar  over  the  balustrade  of  the  ter- 
race and  stretched  out  his  long  legs,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  grinned. 

"No,  don't  do  that.  One  of  these  days  I  might 
be  amused  to  read  it.  Besides,  it  took  me  such  a 
devil  of  a  time  to  write.  It  was  good  of  you  to  keep 
things  to  yourself  although  I  laid  down  no  condi- 
tions of  secrecy.  I  might  have  known  it."  He  stared 
at  the  hill-side  opposite,  with  its  zigzag  path  through 
the  vines  marked  by  the  figures  of  zealous  pedes- 
trians, and  then  he  said  suddenly:  "If  I  asked  you 
not  to  come  and  see  our  show  you  would  set  me 
down  as  a  fantastical  coward." 

I  protested.  "  How  could  I,  after  all  you  have  told 
me?" 

"  I  want  you  to  come.  Not  to-day.  Things  might 
be  in  a  muddle.  One  never  knows.  But  to-morrow. 
It  will  do  me  good." 

I  promised.  We  chatted  a  little  longer  and  then 
he  rose  to  go.  I  accompanied  him  to  the  tram,  his 
long  lean  body  overwhelming  my  somewhat  fleshy 
insignificance.  And  while  I  walked  with  him  I 
thought:  "Why  is  it  that  I  can't  tell  a  man  who 
confides  to  me  his  inmost  secrets,  to  buy,  for  God's 
sake,  another  hat?" 

The  following  afternoon,  I  went  to  the  Cirque 


248  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Vendramin.  I  sat  in  a  front  seat.  I  saw  the  per- 
formance. It  was  much  as  I  have  already  described 
to  you.  Except  perhaps  for  his  height  and  ungainli- 
ness  no  one  could  have  recognized  Andrew  Lackaday 
in  the  painted  clown  Petit  Patou.  His  grotesquery 
of  appearance  was  terrific.  From  the  tip  of  his  red 
pointed  wig  to  the  bottom  of  his  high  heels  he  must 
have  been  eight  feet.  I  should  imagine  him  to  have 
been  out  of  scale  on  the  music-hall  stage.  But  in 
the  ring  he  was  perfect.  The  mastery  of  his  craft, 
the  cleanness  of  his  jugglery,  amazed  me.  He  di- 
vested himself  of  his  wig  and  did  a  five  minutes'  act 
of  lightning  impersonation  with  a  trick  felt  hat,  the 
descendant  of  the  Chapeau  de  Tabarin:  the  ex- 
Kaiser,  Foch,  Clemenceau,  Lloyd  George,  Presi- 
dent Wilson — a  Boche  prisoner,  a  helmeted 
Tommy,  a  Poilu  —  which  was  marvellous,  consider- 
ing the  painted  Petit  Patou  face.  For  all  assistance, 
Elodie  held  up  a  cheap  bedroom  wall-mirror.  He 
played  his  one-stringed  fiddle.  I  admired  the  tech- 
nical perfection  of  the  famous  cigar-act.  I  noted 
the  stupid  bewilderment  with  which  he  received  a 
typhoon  of  hoops  thrown  by  Elodie,  and  his  waggish 
leer  when,  clown-wise,  he  had  caught  them  all.  If 
the  audience  packed  within  the  canvas  amphi- 
theatre had  gone  mad  in  applause  over  this  exhibi- 
tion of  exquisite  skill  interlarded  with  witty  patter, 
I  might  have  been  carried  away  into  enthusiastic 
appreciation  of  a  great  art.  But  the  audience,  as 
far  as  applause  could  be  the  criterion,  missed  the 
exquisiteness  of  it,  guffawed  only  at  the  broadest 
clowning  and  applauded  finally  just  enough  to  keep 
up  the  heart  of  the  management  and  Les  Petit  Patou. 
I  have  seen  many  harrowing  things  in  the  course  of 
a  complicated  Hie;  but  this  I  reckon  was  one  of  the 
chief  among  them. 

I  thought  of  the  scene  a  year  ago,  at  Mansfield 
Park.  The  distinguished  soldier  with  his  rainbow 
row  of  ribbons  modestly  confused  by  Evadne's 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  249 

summons  to  the  household  on  his  appointment  to 
the  Brigade;  the  English  setting;  the  old  red  gabled 
Manor  house;  the  green  lawn;  the  bright  English 
faces  of  old  Sir  Julian  and  his  wife,  of  young  Charles 
the  hero  worshipper;  the  light  in  Auriol's  eyes;  the 
funny  little  hali-ashamed  English  ceremony;  again 
the  gaunt,  grim,  yet  childishly  smiling  figure  in 
khaki,  the  ideal  of  the  scarred  and  proven  English 
leader  of  men.  .  .  . 

The  scene  shimmered  before  me  and  then  I  real- 
ized the  same  man  in  his  abominable  travesty  of 
God's  image,  bowing  before  the  tepid  plaudits,  of  an 
alien  bourgeoisie  in  a  filthy,  smelly  canvas  circus, 
and  I  tell  you  I  felt  the  agony  that  comes  when 
time  has  dried  up  within  one  the  fount  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SOON  afterwards  I  met  Horatio  Bakkus.  With 
his  white  hair,  ascetic,  clean-shaved  face  and 
deep  dark  eyes  he  looked  like  an  Italian  eccle- 
siastic. One's  glance  instinctively  sought  the  ton- 
sure. He  would  come  forward  on  to  the  open-air 
platform  beneath  the  thick  foliage  of  the  park  with 
the  detached  mien  of  a  hierophant;  and  there  he 
would  sing  like  an  angel,  one  of  those  who  quire  to 
the  youngest-eyed  cherubim  so  as  not  to  wake  them. 
When  I  made  him  my  modest  compliment  he  said: 

"  Trick,  my  dear  sir.  Trick  and  laziness.  I  might 
have  had  the  bel  canto,  if  I  had  toiled  interminably; 
but,  thank  God,  I've  managed  to  carry  through  on 
self-indulgent  sloth." 

As  he  lived  at  Royat  I  saw  much  of  him  alone, 
Royat  being  such  a  wee  place  that  if  two  sojourners 
venture  simultaneously  abroad  they  must  of  neces- 
sity meet.  I  found  him  as  Lackaday  had  described 
him,  a  widely  read  scholar  and  an  amiable  and 
cynical  companion.  But  in  addition  to  these  casual 
encounters,  I  was  thrown  daily  into  his  society  with 
Lackaday  and  Elodie.  We  arranged  always  to  lunch 
together,  Lackaday,  Bakkus  and  myself  taking  it  in 
turns  to  be  hosts  at  our  respective  hotels.  Now  and 
then  Elodie  insisted  on  breaking  the  routine  and 
acting  as  hostess  at  a  restaurant  in  Clermont-Ferrand. 
It  was  all  very  pleasant.  The  only  woman  to  three 
men,  Elodie  preened  herself  with  amusing  obvious- 
ness and  set  out  to  make  herself  agreeable.  She  did 
it  with  a  Frenchwoman's  natural  grace.  But  as 
soon  as  the  talk  drifted  into  anything  allusive  to 
war  or  books  or  art  or  politics,  she  manifested  an 
ignorance  abysmal  in  its  profundity.  I  was  amazed 

250 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  251 

that  a  woman  should  have  been  for  years  the  inti- 
mate companion  of  two  men  like  Lackaday  and 
Bakkus  without  picking  up  some  superficial  knowl- 
edge of  the  matters  they  discussed.  And  I  was  in- 
terested, even  to  the  pitch  of  my  amazement,  to  behold 
the  deference  of  both  men,  when  her  polite  and 
vacant  smile  proclaimed  her  inability  to  follow  the 
conversation.  Invariably  one  of  them  would  leave 
me  to  the  other  and  turn  to  Elodie.  It  was  Bakkus 
more  often  who  thus  broke  away.  He  had  the  quick 
impish  faculty,  one  of  the  rarest  of  social  gifts,  of 
suddenly  arresting  a  woman's  attention  by  a  phrase, 
apparently  irrelevant,  yet  to  her  woman's  jumping 
mind  relevant  to  the  matter  under  dispute  and  of 
carrying  it  off  into  a  pleasant  feminine  sphere.  It 
was  impish,  and  I  believe  deliberately  so,  for  on  such 
occasions  one  could  catch  the  ironic  gleam  in  his 
eyes.  The  man's  sincere  devotion  to  both  of  them 
was  obvious. 

"Madame  Patou  .  .  ."I  began  one  day,  at  lunch 
—  we  were  talking  of  the  tyranny  of  fashion,  even  in 
the  idyllic  lands  where  ladies  are  fully  dressed  in  teeth 
necklaces  and  yellow  ochre  —  "Madame  Patou  ..." 

She  threw  up  her  hands.  We  were  lunching  very 
well  —  the  petit  vin  of  Auvergne  is  delicious  — 
"  Mais  voyons  done  —  why  all  this  ceremony  among 
friends?  Here  we  are,  we  three,  and  it  is  Andre, 
Horace,  Elodie  —  and  here  we  are,  we  four,  and  it  is 
Monsieur  Bakkus,  and  Lackaday  —  never  will  I  be 
able  to  pronounce  that  word  —  and  Madame  Patou 
and  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Hylton.  Look.  To  my 
friends  I  am  Elodie  tout  court  —  and  you?" 

It  was  an  embarrassing  moment.  Andrew's  mug 
of  a  face  was  as  expressionless  as  that  of  a  sphinx. 
He  would  no  more  have  dreamed  of  addressing  me 
by  my  Christian  name  than  of  hailing  Field-Marshal 
Haig  as  Douglas.  White-haired,  thin-lipped  Bakkus 
smiled  sardonically.  But  there  was  no  help  for  it. 


252  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"My  very  intimate  friends  call  me  Tony,"  said  I. 

"  To-ny,"  she  echoed.  "  But  it  is  charming,  To-ny. 
A  wire  sante,  To-ny." 

She  held  put  her  glass  —  I  was  sitting  next  to  her. 
I  clinked  mine  politely. 

"To  the  health  of  the  charming  Elodie." 

She  was  delighted.  Made  us  all  clink  glasses. 
Bakkus  said,  in  English: 

"To  the  abolition  of  Misters,  in  obedience  to  the 
Lady." 

"And  now,"  cried  Elodie,  "what  were  you  going 
to  say  about  fashions  in  necklaces  made  of  dogs' 
teeth?" 

We  pursued  our  frivolous  talk.    Bakkus  said: 

"The  whole  of  the  Fall  of  Man  arose  from  Eve 
pestering  Adam  for  a  russet-brown  fig-leaf  in  spring 
time." 

"  It  was  after  the  fall  that  they  made  themselves 
aprons,"  said  Lackaday. 

"She  had  her  eye  on  those  fig-leaves  long  before," 
retorted  Bakkus. 

We  laughed.  There  was  no  great  provocation  to 
mirth.  But  we  were  attuned  to  gaiety.  My  three 
friends  were  lunching  with  me  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Royat  Palace  Hotel.  It  is  a  long,  wide  terrace, 
reaching  the  whole  width  of  the  facade  of  the  build- 
ing, and  doors  lead  on  to  it  from  all  the  public  rooms. 
Only  half  of  it,  directly  accessible  from  the  salle  a 
manger  is  given  over  to  restaurant  tables.  Ours  was 
on  the  outskirts.  I  like  to  be  free,  to  have  plenty 
of  room  and  air;  especially  on  a  broiling  August 
day.  We  were  in  cool  shade.  A  few  feet  below  us 
stretched  a  lower  terrace,  with  grass-plots  and  flowers 
and  a  fountain  and  gaily  awned  garden  seats  and 
umbrella-shaded  chairs.  And  there  over  the  para- 
pet the  vine-clad  hill  cmivered  in  the  sunshine 
against  the  blue  summer  sky,  and  around  us  were 
cheerful  folk  at  lunch  forgetful  of  hearts  and  blood- 
pressure  hi  the  warm  beauty  of  the  day.  Perhaps 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  253 

now  and  then  a  stern  and  elderly  French  couple  — 
he  stolid,  strongly  bearded  and  decorated,  she  thin 
and  brown,  over-coiffured  and  over-ringed  —  with 
an  elderly  angular  daughter,  hard  to  marry,  regarded 
us  with  eyes  of  disapproval.  Elodie  in  happy  mood 
threw  off  restraint,  as,  in  more  private  and  intimate 
surroundings,  she  would  have  thrown  off  her  corset. 
But  we  cared  not  for  the  disapproval  of  the  correct 
French  profiteers.  .  .  . 

"  If  they  tried  to  smile,"  said  Elodie,  incidentally, 
"they  would  burst  and  all  the  gold  would  drop  out." 

Lackaday  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  —  the 
first  real,  hearty  laugh  I  had  seen  him  exhibit  since 
I  had  met  him  in  France.  You  see  the  day,  the  food, 
the  wine,  the  silly  talk,  the  dancing  wit  of  Bakkus, 
the  delightful  comradeship,  had  brought  the  four  of 
us  into  a  little  atmosphere  of  joyousness.  There  was 
nothing  very  intellectual  about  it.  In  the  hideous 
realm  of  pure  intellectuality  there  could  not  exist 
even  the  hardiest  ghost  of  a  smile.  Laughter,  like 
love,  is  an  expression  of  man's  vehement  revolt 
against  reason.  So  Andrew  Lackaday  threw  himself 
back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  at  Elodie's  quip. 

But  suddenly,  as  if  some  blasting  hand  had  smitten 
him,  his  laughter  ceased.  His  jaw  dropped  for  a 
second  and  then  snapped  like  a  vice.  He  was  sitting 
on  my  left  hand,  his  back  to  the  balustrade,  and 
facing  the  dining-room.  At  the  sight  of  him  we  all 
instinctively  sobered  and  bent  forward  in  question- 
ing astonishment.  He  recovered  himself  quickly  and 
tried  to  smile  as  if  nothing  had  happened  —  but, 
seeing  his  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  something  behind 
me,  I  turned  round. 

And  there,  calmly  walking  up  the  long  terrace 
towards  us,  was  Lady  Auriol  Dayne. 

I  sprang  from  my  chair  and  strode  swiftly  to  meet 
her.  From  a  grating  sound  behind  me  I  knew  that 
Lackaday  had  also  risen.  I  stretched  out  my  hand 
mechanically  and,  regardless  of  manners,  I  said: 


254  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?" 

She  withdrew  the  hand  that  she  too  had  put 
forward. 

"That's  a  nice  sort  of  welcome." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  I.  "Please  consider  the  ques- 
tion put  more  politely." 

"Well,  I'm  here,"  she  replied,  "because  it  happens 
to  be  my  good  pleasure." 

"Then  I  hope  you'll  find  lots  of  pleasure,  my  dear 
Auriol." 

She  laughed,  standing  as  cool  as  you  please,  very 
grateful  to  the  eye  in  tussore  coat  and  skirt,  with 
open-necked  blouse,  and  some  kind  of  rakish  hat 
displaying  her  thick  auburn  hair  in  defiance  of  the 
fashion  which  decreed  concealment  even  of  eyebrows 
with  flower-pot  head  gear.  She  laughed  easily, 
mockingly,  although  she  saw  plainly  the  pikestaff  of 
a  Lackaday  upright  a  few  yards  away  from  her,  in 
a  rigid  attitude  of  parade. 

"Anyhow,"  she  said,  "I  must  go  and  say  how  d'ye 
do  to  the  General." 

I  gave  way  to  her.  We  walked  side  by  side  to  the 
table.  She  advanced  to  him  in  the  most  unconcerned 
manner.  Bakkus  rose  politely. 

"My  dear  General,  fancy  seeing  you  here!  How 
delightful." 

I  have  never  seen  a  man's  eyes  devour  a  woman 
with  such  idiotic  obviousness. 

"Lady  Auriol,"  said  he,  "you  are  the  last  per- 
son I  ever  thought  of  meeting."  He  paused  for  a 
second.  Then,  "  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  intro- 
ducing —  Madame  Patou  —  Lady  Auriol  Dayne  — 
Mr.  Bakkus " 

"Do  sit  down,  please,  everybody,"  said  Auriol, 
after  the  introductions.  "I  feel  like  a  common 
nuisance.  But  I  came  by  the  night  train  and  went 
to  sleep  and  only  woke  up  to  find  myself  just  in 
time  for  the  fag-end  of  lunch." 

"I  am  host,"  said  I.    "Won't  you  join  us?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  255 

What  else  was  there  to  do?  She  glanced  at  me 
•with  smiling  inscrutability. 

"You're  awfully  kind,  Tony.  But  I'm  disturbing 
you." 

The  maitre  d 'hotel  and  waiter  with  a  twist  of 
legerdemain  set  her  place  between  myself  and 
Lackaday. 

"This  is  a  charming  spot,  isn't  it,  Madame  Pa- 
tou?"  she  remarked. 

Elodie,  who  had  regarded  her  wonderingly  as 
though  she  had  besn  a  creature  of  another  world, 
bowed  and  smiled. 

"We  all  talk  French,  my  dear  Auriol,"  said  I, 
"because  Madame  Patou  knows  no  English." 

"Ah!"  said  Lady  Auriol.  "I  never  thought  of 
it."  She  translated  her  remark.  "I'm  afraid  my 
French  is  that  of  the  British  Army,  where  I  learned 
most  of  it.  But  if  people  are  kind  and  patient  I 
can  make  myself  understood." 

"Mademoiselle  speaks  French  very  well,"  replied 
Elodie  politely. 

"You  are  very  good  to  say  so,  Madame." 

I  caught  questioning,  challenging  glances  flash- 
ing across  the  table,  each  woman  hostilely  striving 
to  place  the  other.  You  see,  we  originally  sat: 
Elodie  on  my  right  hand,  then  Bakkus  facing  straight 
down  the  terrace,  then  Lackaday,  then  myself.  It 
occurred  to  me  at  once  that,  with  her  knowledge  of 
my  convention-trained  habits,  she  would  argue  that, 
at  a  luncheon  party,  either  I  would  not  have  placed 
the  lady  next  the  man  to  whom  she  belonged,  or 
that  she  was  a  perfectly  independent  guest,  belong- 
ing, so  to  speak,  to  nobody.  But  on  the  latter 
hypothesis,  what  was  she  doing  in  this  galley?  I 
swear  I  saw  the  wrinkle  on  Lady  Auriol's  brow  be- 
tokening the  dilemma.  She  had  known  me  from 
childhood's  days  of  lapsed  memory.  I  had  always 
been.  Romantically  she  knew  Lackaday.  Horatio 
Bakkus,  with  his  sacerdotal  air  and  well-bred  speech 


256  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

and  manner,  evidently  belonged  to  our  own  social 
class.  But  Madame  Patou,  who  mopped  up  the 
sauce  on  her  plate  with  a  bit  of  bread,  and  made 
broad  use  of  a  toothpick,  and  leaned  back  and  fanned 
herself  with  her  napkin  and  breathed  a  "  Man  Dieu, 
qu'ilfait  chaud,"  and  contributed  nothing  intelligent 
to  the  conversation,  she  could  not  accept  as  the  de- 
tached lady  invited  by  me  to  charm  my  two  male 
guests.  She  was  then  driven  to  the  former  hypothe- 
sis. Madame  Patou  belonged  in  some  way  to  the 
man  by  whose  side  she  was  not  seated. 

Of  course,  there  was  another  alternative.  I  might 
have  been  responsible  for  the  poor  lady.  But  she 
was  as  artless  as  a  poor  lady  could  be.  Addressing 
my  two  friends  it  was  always  Andre  and  Horace, 
and  instinctively  she  used  the  familiar  "fa."  Ad- 
dressing me  she  had  affrightedly  forgotten  the  pact 
of  Christian  names,  and  it  was  "Monsieur  le  Capi- 
taine"  and,  of  course,  the  "wus"  which  she  had 
never  dreamed  of  changing.  Even  so  poor  a  French 
scholar  as  Lady  Auriol  could  not  be  misled  into  such 
absurd  paths  of  conjecture. 

She  belonged  therefore,  in  some  sort  of  fashion, 
to  General  Lackaday.  An  elderly  man  of  the  world, 
with  his  nerves  on  edge,  has  no  need  of  wizardry  to 
divine  the  psychology  of  such  a  situation. 

Mistress  of  social  forms,  Lady  Auriol,  after  sweep- 
ing Elodie  into  her  net,  caught  Horatio  Bakkus  and 
through  reference  to  her  own  hospital  experiences 
during  the  war,  wrung  from  him  the  avowal  of  his 
concerts  for  the  wounded  in  Paris. 

"How  splendid  of  you!  By  the  way,  how  do  you 
spell  your  name?  It's  an  uncommon  one." 

"With  two  k's." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  have  anything  to  do  with  an  old 
friend  of  my  father,  Archdeacon  Bakkus?" 

'My  eldest  brother." 

"No,  really?  One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is 
his  buying  a  prize  boar  from  my  father." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  257 

"Just  like  the  dear  fellow's  prodigality,"  said  Bak- 
kus.  "He  had  a  whole  Archdeaconry  to  his  hand 
for  nothing.  I've  lately  spent  a  couple  of  months 
with  him  in  Westmorland,  so  I  know." 

"How  small  the  world  is,"  said  Lady  Auriol  to 
Lackaday. 

"Too  small,"  said  he. 

"Oh,"  said  Auriol  blankly. 

"Have  you  seen  our  good  friends,  the  Verity- 
Stewarts  lately?" 

She  had.  They  were  in  perfect  health.  They 
were  wondering  what  had  become  of  him. 

"And  indeed,  General,"  she  flashed,  "what  has 
become  of  you?" 

"It  is  not  good,"  said  Elodie,  in  quick  anticipa- 
tion, "that  the  General  should  neglect  his  English 
friends."  a 

There  sounded  the  note  of  proprietorship,  audible 
to  anybody.  Auriol's  eyes  dwelt  for  a  second  on 
Elodie;  then  she  turned  to  Lackaday. 

"Madame  Patou  is  quite  right." 

Said  he,  with  one  of  his  rare  flights  into  imagery, 
"I  was  but  a  shooting  star  across  the  English 
firmament." 

"Encore  une  eioile  qui  file, 
File,  file  et  disparait!  " 

"Oh  no,  my  dear  friend,"  laughed  Bakkus.  "He 
can't  persuade  us,  Lady  Auriol,  that  he  is  afflicted 
with  the  morbidezza  of  1830." 

' '  Qu'est-ce  que  cest  que  cela  ? ' '  asked  Elodie,  sharply. 

"  It  was  a  fashion  long  ago,  my  dear,  for  poets  to 
assume  the  gaiety  of  a  funeral.  Even  Beranger  who 
wrote  Le  Roi  d'Yvetot  —  you  know  it " 

"Naturally,  'II  etait  un  roi  d'Yvetot!'"  —  cried 
Elodie,  who  had  learned  it  at  school. 

"Well  —  of  course.  Even  Beranger  could  not  es- 
cape the  malady  of  his  generation.  Do  you  remem- 
ber"—  his  swift  glance  embraced  us  aU  —  "Long- 
fellow's criticism  of  European  poets  of  that  epoch, 


258  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

in  his  prose  masterpiece,  Hyperion?  He  refers  to 
Salis  and  Matthisson,  but  Lamartine  and  people  of 
his  kidney  come  in  — '  Melancholy  gentlemen  par- 
don, my  dear  Elodie,  if  I  quote  it  in  English  — 
*  Melancholy  gentlemen  to  whom  life  was  only  a 
dismal  swamp,  upon  whose  margin  they  walked 
with  cambric  handkerchiefs  in  their  hands,  sobbing 
and  sighing  and  making  signals  to  Death  to  come 
and  ferry  them  over  the  lake.'  Cela  veut  dire,"  he 
made  a  marvellous  French  paraphrase  for  Elodie's 
benefit. 

"Comprends  pas,"  she  shrugged  at  the  boredom 
of  literary  allusion.  "  I  don't  see  what  all  that  has 
to  do  with  Andre.  I  shall  see,  Mademoiselle,  that 
he  writes  to  his  friends." 

"You  will  be  doing  them  a  great  service, 
Madame,"  replied  Auriol. 

There  was  a  stiff  silence.  If  Bakkus  had  stuck  to 
his  intention  of  driving  the  conversation  away  from 
embarrassing  personal  questions,  instead  of  being 
polite  to  Elodie,  we  should  have  been  spared  this 
freezing  moment  of  self-consciousness.  I  asked 
Auriol  whether  she  had  had  a  pleasant  journey,  and 
we  discussed  the  discomfort  of  trains.  From  then 
to  the  end  of  the  meal  the  conversation  halted.  It 
was  a  relief  to  rise  and  fall  into  groups  as  we  strolled 
down  the  terrace  to  coffee.  I  manoeuvred  Elodie 
and  Bakkus  to  the  front  leaving  Auriol  and  Lacka- 
day  to  follow.  I  sought  a  table  at  the  far  end,  for 
coffee;  but  when  I  turned  round,  I  discovered  that 
the  pair  had  descended  by  the  mid-way  flight  of 
three  or  four  steps  to  the  grass-plotted  and  fountained 
terrace  below. 

We  sat  down.    Elodie  asked: 

"Who  is  that  lady?" 

I  explained  as  best  I  could.  "She  is  the  daughter 
of  an  English  nobleman,  whence  her  title.  The  way 
to  address  her  is  '  Lady  Auriol.'  She  did  lots  of  work 
during  the  war,  work  of  hospital  organization  in 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  259 

France,  and  now  she  is  still  working  for  France.  I 
have  known  her  since  she  was  three  years  old;  so 
she  is  a  very  great  friend  of  mine." 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  bit  of  red  thatched  head 
and  the  gleam  of  the  crown  of  a  white  hat  just  visible 
over  the  balustrade. 

"She  appears  also  to  be  a  great  friend  of  Andre." 

"The  General  met  many  charming  ladies  during 
his  stay  in  England,"  I  lied  cheerfully. 

"Which  means,"  she  said  with  a  toss  of  her  head 
and  an  ironical  smile,  "that  the  General  behaved 
like  a  real  —  who  was  it,  Horace,  who  loved  women 
so  much?  Ah  oui  —  like  a  real  Don  Juan."  She 
wagged  her  plump  forefinger.  "Oh  no,  I  know  my 
Andre." 

"I  could  tell  you  stories "  said  I. 

"Which  would  not  be  true." 

She  laughed  in  a  forced  way  —  and  her  eyes  again 
sought  the  tops  of  the  couple  promenading  in  the 
sunshine.  She  resumed  her  catechism. 

"How  old  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly." 

"But  since  you  have  known  her  since  she  was 
three  years  old?" 

"If  I  began  to  count  years  at  my  time  of  life," 
said  I,  "I  should  die  of  fright." 

"She  looks  about  thirty.  Wouldn't  you  say  so, 
Horace?  It  is  droll  that  she  has  not  married.  Why?" 

"Before  the  war  she  was  a  great  traveller.  She 
has  been  by  herself  all  over  the  world  in  all  sorts  of 
places  among  wild  tribes  and  savages.  She  has  been 
far  too  busy  to  think  of  marriage." 

Elodie  looked  incredulous.  "  One  has  always  one's 
moments  perdus." 

"One  doesn't  marry  in  odd  moments,"  said  I. 

"You  and  Horace  are  old  bachelors  who  know 
nothing  at  all  about  it.  Tell  me.  Is  she  very 
rich?" 

"  None  of  our  old  families  are  very  rich  nowadays," 


260  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

I  replied,  rather  at  a  loss  to  account,  save  on  the 
score  of  feminine  curiosity,  for  this  examination.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  her  mother  who  left  her  a  small 
fortune  of  a  thousand  or  so  a  year,  Auriol  would 
have  been  as  penniless  as  her  two  married  sisters. 
Her  brother,  Lord  Vintrey,  once  a  wastrel  subaltern 
of  Household  Cavalry,  and,  after  a  dashing,  re- 
deeming war  record,  now  an  expensive  Lieutenant- 
Colonel,  ate  up  all  the  ready  money  that  Lord 
Mountshire  could  screw  out  of  his  estates.  With 
Elodie  I  could  not  enter  into  these  explanations. 

"All  the  same  she  is  passably  rich,"  Elodie  per- 
sisted. "  One  does  not  buy  a  costume  like  that  under 
five  hundred  francs." 

The  crimson  vested  and  sashed  and  tarbooshed 
Algerian  negro  brought  the  coffee,  and  poured  out 
the  five  cups.  We  sipped.  I  noticed  Elodie's  hand 
shake. 

$,  "If  then-  coffee  gets  cold,  so  much  the  worse." 
'   Bakkus,  who  had  maintained  a  discreet  silence 
hitherto,  remarked:  — 

"Unless  Andrew's  head  is  particularly  thick,  he'll 
get  a  sunstroke  in  this  blazing  sun." 

"That's  true,"  cried  Elodie  and,  rising  with  a  great 
scraping  of  chair,  she  rushed  to  the  balustrade  and 
addressed  him  shrilly. 
\    "Mais  dis  done  Andre,  tu  veux  attraper  un  coup  de 

wfefl?" 

We  heard  his  voice  in  reply:  "Nous  rentrons." 
A  few  moments  afterwards  they  mounted  from  the 
lower  terrace  and  came  towards  us.  Lackaday's  face 
was  set  in  one  of  its  tight-lipped  expressionless  moods. 
Lady  Auriol's  cheek  was  flushed,  and  though  she 
smiled  conventional  greeting,  her  eyes  were  very 
serious. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  put  into  danger  the  General's 
health,  madame,"  said  she  in  her  clear  and  British 
French.  "But  when  two  comrades  of  the  Great 
War  meet  for  the  first  time,  one  is  forgetful." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  .   261 

She  gave  me  a  little  sign  rejecting  the  offered 
coffee.  Lackaday  took  his  cup  and  drank  it  off  at 
one  gulp.  He  looked  at  his  wrist  watch,  the  only 
remaining  insignia  of  the  British  soldier. 

"Time  for  our  tram,  Elodie." 

"C'est  vrai?"  He  held  his  wrist  towards  her. 
"Oui,  mon  Dieu!  Miladi —  She  funked  the  diffi- 
cult "Lady  Auriol." 

"Au  revoir,  Madame,"  said  Auriol  shaking  hands. 

"  Trop  honor *ee"  said  Elodie,  somewhat  defiantly. 
"Au  revoir,  Miladi"  She  made  an  awkward  little 
bow.  "Et  toi,"  she  extended  a  careless  left  hand  to 
Bakkus. 

"  I  will  see  you  to  the  lift,"  said  I. 

We  walked  down  the  terrace  in  silence  to  the  salon 
door  just  inside  which  was  the  lift  which  took  one 
down  some  four  stories  to  the  street.  Two  things 
were  obvious:  the  perturbation  of  the  simple  Lacka- 
day and  the  jealousy  of  Elodie. 

"Au  revoir,  monsieur,  et  merci"  she  said,  with 
over  emphasized  politeness,  as  we  stood  at  the  lift 
gates. 

"Good-bye,  old  chap,"  said  Lackaday  and  gripped 
my  hand  hard. 

As  soon  as  I  returned  to  the  end  of  the  terrace, 
Bakkus  rose  and  took  his  leave.  Auriol  and  I  were 
alone.  Of  course  other  humans  were  clustering 
round  tables  all  the  length  of  the  terrace.  But  we 
had  our  little  end  corner  to  ourselves.  I  sat  down 
next  to  her. 

"Well?"  said  I. 

She  bent  forward,  and  her  face  was  that  of  the 
woman  whom  I  had  met  in  the  rain  and  mud  and 
stark  reality  of  the  war. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 


CHAPTER  XX 

IF  a  glance  could  destroy,  if  Lady  Auriol  had  been 
a  Gorgon  or  a  basilisk  or  a  cockatrice,  then  had 
I  been  a  slain  Anthony  Hylton. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?"' 

The  far-flung  gesture  of  her  arm  ending  in  out- 
spread fingers  might  have  been  that  of  Elodie. 

"Tell  you  what,  my  dear?"  said  I. 

"The  whole  wretched  tragedy.  I  came  to  you 
a  year  ago  with  my  heart  in  my  hand  —  the  only 
human  creature  living  who  I  thought  could 
help  me.  And  you've  let  me  down  like  this.  It's 
damnable!" 

"An  honourable  man,"  said  I,  nettled,  "doesn't 
betray  confidences." 

"An  honourable  man!  I  like  that!  I  gave  you 
my  confidences.  Haven't  you  betrayed  them?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  I.  "Not  the  faintest  hint  of 
what  you  have  said  to  me  have  I  whispered  into  the 
ear  of  man  or  woman." 

She  fumed.  "  If  you  had,  you  would  be  —  un- 
mentionable." 

"Precisely.  And  I  should  have  been  equally  un- 
deserving of  mention,  if  I  had  told  you  of  the  secret, 
or  double,  or  ex-war  —  however  you  like  to  describe 
it  —  life  of  our  friend." 

"The  thing  is  not  on  all  fours,"  she  said  with  a 
snap  of  her  fingers.  "You  could  have  given  me  the 
key  to  the  mystery  —  such  as  it  is.  You  could 
have  prevented  me  from  making  a  fool  of  myself. 
You  could,  Tony.  From  the  very  start." 

"At  the  very  start,  I  knew  little  more  than  you 
did.  Nothing  save  that  he  was  bred  in  a  circus, 
where  I  met  him  thirty  years  ago.  I  knew  nothing 

262 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  263 

more  of  his  history  till  this  April,  when  he  told  me 
he  was  Petit  Patou  of  the  music-halls.  His  con- 
fidence has  been  given  me  bit  by  bit.  The  last  time 
I  saw  you  I  had  never  heard  of  Madame  Patou. 
It  was  you  that  guessed  the  woman  in  his  life.  I 
had  no  idea  whether  you  were  right  or  wrong." 

"Yet  you  could  have  given  me  a  hint  —  the 
merest  hint  —  without  betraying  confidences  —  as 
you  call  it,"  she  mouthed  my  phrase  ironically. 
"It  was  not  playing  the  game." 

"I  gathered,"  said  I,  "that  playing  the  game  was 
what  both  of  you  had  decided  to  do,  in  view  of  the 
obviously  implied  lady  in  the  background." 

"Well?"  she  challenged. 

"If  it's  a  question  of  playing  the  game"  —  I  had 
carried  the  war  into  the  enemy's  quarters  —  "may 
I  repeat  my  original  rude  question  this  morning? 
What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here?" 

She  turned  on  me  in  a  fury.  "How  dare  you 
insinuate  such  a  thing?" 

"You've  not  come  to  Royat  for  the  sake  of  my 
beautiful  eyes." 

"I'm  under  no  obligation  to  tell  you  why  I've 
come  to  Royat.  Let  us  say  my  liver's  out  of  order." 

"Then  my  dear,"  said  I,  "you  have  come  to  the 
wrong  place  to  cure  it." 

She  glanced  at  me  wrathfully,  took  out  a  cigarette, 
waved  away  with  an  unfriendly  gesture  the  briquette 
I  had  drawn  from  my  pocket,  and  struck  one  of  her 
own  matches.  There  fell  a  silence,  during  which  I 
sat  back  in  my  chair,  my  arms  on  the  elbow  and  my 
fingers'  tips  joined  together,  and  assumed  an  air  of 
philosophic  meditation. 

Presently  she  said:  "There  are  times,  Tony,  when 
I  should  like  to  kill  you." 

"I  am  glad,"  said  I,  "to  note  the  resumption  of 
human  relations." 

"You  are  always  so  pragmatically  and  priggishly 
correct,"  she  said. 


264  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "if  you  want  me  to  sym- 
pathize with  you  in  this  impossible  situation,  I'll 
do  it  with  all  my  heart.  But  don't  round  on  me 
for  either  bringing  it  about  or  not  preventing  it." 

"  I  was  anxious  to  know  something  about  Andrew 
Lackaday  —  I  don't  care  whether  you  think  me  a 
fool  or  not"  — she  was  still  angry  and  defiant  — 
"I  wrote  you  pointedly.  You  did  not  answer  my 
letter.  I  wrote  again  reminding  you  of  your  lack 
of  courtesy.  You  replied  like  a  pretty  fellow  in  a 
morning  coat  at  the  Foreign  Office  and  urbanely 
ignored  my  point." 

She  puffed  indignantly.  The  terrace  began  to 
be  deserted.  There  was  a  gap  of  half  a  dozen  tables 
between  us  and  the  next  group.  The  flamboyant 
Algerian  removed  the  coffee  cups.  When  we  were 
alone  again,  I  reiterated  my  explanation.  At  every 
stage  of  my  knowledge  I  was  held  in  the  bond  of 
secrecy.  Lackaday's  sensitive  soul  dreaded,  more 
than  all  the  concentrated  high-explosive  bombard- 
ment of  the  whole  of  the  late  German  Army,  the 
possibility  of  Lady  Auriol  knowing  him  as  the 
second-rate  music-hall  artist. 

"You  are  the  woman  of  his  dreams,"  said  I. 
"You're  an  unapproachable  star  in  mid  ether,  or 
whatever  fanciful  lover's  image  you  like  to  credit 
him  with.  The  only  thing  for  his  salvation  was  to 
make  a  clean  cut.  Don't  you  see?" 
r  "That's  all  very  pretty,"  said  Auriol.  "But  what 
about  me?  A  clean  cut  you  call  it?  A  man  cuts  a 
woman  in  half  and  goes  off  to  his  own  life  and  thinks 
he  has  committed  an  act  of  heroic  self-sacrifice!" 

I  put  my  hand  on  hers.  "My  dear  child,"  said 
I,  "if  Andrew  Lackaday  thought  you  were  eating 
out  your  heart  for  him  he  would  be  the  most  flab- 
bergasted creature  in  the  world." 

She  bent  her  capable  eyes  on  me.  "That's  a  bit 
dogmatic,  isn't  it?  May  I  ask  if  you  have  any 
warrant  for  what  you're  saying?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  265 

"In  his  own  handwriting." 

I  gave  a  brief  account  of  the  manuscript. 

"Where  is  it?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  In  my  safe  in  London  —  I'm  sorry 


In  indignation  she  flashed:  "I  wouldn't  read  a 
word  of  it." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  I.  "Nor  would  I  put  it 
into  your  hands  without  Lackaday's  consent.  Any- 
how, that's  my  authority  and  warrant." 

She  threw  the  stub  of  her  cigarette  across  the 
terrace  and  went  back  to  the  original  cry: 

"Oh  Tony,  if  you  had  only  given  me  some  kind 
of  notion!" 

"I've  tried  to  prove  to  you  that  I  couldn't." 

"I  suppose  not,"  she  admitted  wearily. 

"Men  have  their  standards.  Forgive  me  if  I've 
been  unreasonable." 

When  a  woman  employs  her  last  weapon,  her  con- 
fession of  unreason,  and  demands  forgiveness,  what 
can  a  man  do  but  proclaim  himself  the  worm  that 
he  is?  We  went  through  a  pretty  scene  of  reconcilia- 
tion. 

"And  now,"  said  I,  "what  did  Lackaday,  in 
terms  of  plain  fact,  tell  you  down  there?" 

She  told  me.  Apparently  he  had  given  her  a 
precis  of  his  Life's  history  amazingly  on  the  lines  of 
a  concentrated  military  despatch. 

"Lady  Auriol,"  said  he,  as  soon  as  they  were  out 
of  earshot,  "you  are  here  by  some  extraordinary 
coincidence.  In  a  few  hours  you  will  be  bound  to 
hear  all  about  me  which  I  desired  you  never  to 
know.  It  is  best  that  I  should  tell  you  myself,  at 
once." 

It  was  extraordinary  what  she  had  learned  from 
him  in  those  few  minutes.  He  had  gone  on  remorse- 
lessly, in  his  staccato  manner,  as  if  addressing  a 
parade,  which  I  knew  so  well,  putting  before  her  the 
dry  yet  vital  facts  of  his  existence. 

"  I  knew  there  was  a  woman  —  wife  and  children 


266  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

—  what  does  it  matter?     I  told  you,"  she  said. 
"But  —  oh  God!"    She  smote  her  hands  together 
hopelessly,  fist  into  palm.     "I  never  dreamed  of 
anything  like  this." 

"I  am  in  a  position  to  give  you  chapter  and 
verse  for  it  all,"  said  I. 

"Oh  I  know,"  she  said,  dejectedly,  and  the  vivid 
flower  that  was  Auriol,  in  a  mood  of  dejection,  sug- 
gested nothing  more  in  the  world  than  a  drought- 
withered  hybiscus  —  her  colour  had  faded,  the 
sweeping  fulness  of  her  drooped,  her  twenties  caught 
the  threatening  facial  lines  of  her  forties  —  what 
can  I  say  more?  The  wilting  of  a  tropical  bloom 

—  that  was  her  attitude  —  the  sap  and  the  life  all 
gone. 

"Oh  I  know.  There's  nothing  vulgar  about  it. 
It  goes  back  into  the  years.  But  still.  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear,"  said  I,  quickly.  "I  under- 
stand." 

We  were  alone  now  on  the  terrace.  Fa^  away,  a 
waiter  hung  over  the  balustrade,  listening  to  the 
band  playing  in  the  Park  below.  But  for  the  noise 
of  the  music,  all  was  still  on  the  breathless  August 
air.  Presently  she  drew  her  palms  over  her  face. 

"I'm  dog-tired." 

"That  abominable  night  journey,"  said  I,  sym- 
pathetically. 

"I  sat  on  a  strapontin  in  the  corridor,  all  night," 
she  said. 

"But,  my  dear,  what  madness!"  I  cried  horri- 
fied, although  in  the  war  she  had  performed  jour- 
neys compared  with  which  this  would  be  the  luxury 
of  travel.  "Why  didn't  you  book  a  coupe-lit,  even 
a  seat,  beforehand?" 

She  smiled  dismally.  "I  only  made  up  my  mind 
yesterday  morning.  I  got  it  into  my  head  that 
you  knew  everything  there  was  to  be  known  about 
Andrew  Lackaday." 

"But  how  did  you  get  it?" 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  267 

My  question  was  one  of  amazement.  No  man  had 
more  out-rivalled  an  oyster  in  incommunicativeness. 

It  appeared  that  I  suffered  from  the  defects  of 
my  qualities.  I  had  been  over-diplomatic.  My 
innocence  had  been  too  bland  for  my  worldly  years. 
My  evasions  had  proclaimed  me  suspect.  My  criti- 
cism of  Royat  made  my  fear  of  a  chance  visit  from 
her  so  obvious.  My  polite  hope  that  I  should  see 
her  in  Paris  on  my  way  back,  rubbed  in  it.  If  there 
had  been  no  bogies  about,  and  Royat  had  been  the 
Golgotha  of  my  picture,  would  not  my  well-known 
selfishness,  when  I  heard  she  was  at  a  loose  end  in 
August  Paris,  have  summoned  her  with  a  "Do  for 
Heaven's  sake  come  and  save  me  from  these  selected 
candidates  for  burial?"  I  had  done  it  before,  in 
analogous  circumstances,  I  at  Nauheim,  she  at 
Nuremberg.  No.  It  was,  on  the  contrary:  "For 
Heaven's  sake  don't  come  near  me.  I'll  see  you  in 
Paris  if  by  misfortune  you  happen  to  be  there." 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "didn't  it  occur  to  you  that 
your  astuteness  might  be  overreaching  itself  and 
that  you  might  find  me  here  —  well  —  in  the  not 
infrequent  position  of  a  bachelor  man  who  desires 
to  withdraw  himself  from  the  scrutiny  of  his  ac- 
quaintance?" 

She  broke  into  disconcerting  laughter. 

"You?    Tony?" 

"Hang  it  all!"  I  cried  angrily,  "I'm  not  eighty  yet!" 

However  virtuous  a  man  may  be,  he  resents  the 
contemptuous  denial  to  his  claim  to  be  a  potential 
libertine. 

She  laughed  again;  then  sobered  down  and  spoke 
soothingly  to  me.  Perhaps  she  did  me  injustice, 
but  such  a  thing  had  never  entered  her  mind  engaged 
as  it  was  with  puzzlement  over  Lackaday.  When 
people  are  afflicted  with  fixed  ideas,  they  grow  per- 
haps telepathic.  Otherwise  she  could  not  account 
for  her  certainty  that  I  could  give  her  some  infor- 
mation. She  knew  that  I  would  not  write.  What 


268  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

was  a  flying  visit  —  a  night's  journey  to  Royat? 
In  her  wander  years,  she  had  travelled  twelve 
hours  to  a  place  and  twelve  back  in  order  to  buy 
a  cabbage.  Her  raid  on  me  was  nothing  so  wonder- 
ful. 

"So  certain  was  I,"  she  said,  "that  you  were  hid- 
ing things  from  me,  that  when  I  saw  him  this  morn- 
ing at  your  table,  I  was  scarcely  surprised." 

"My  dear  Auriol,"  said  I,  when  she  had  finished 
the  psychological  sketch  of  her  flight  from  Paris, 
"  I  think  the  man  who  unlearned  most  about  women 
as  the  years  went  on,  was  Methuselah." 

"A  woman  only  puts  two  and  two  together  and 
makes  it  five.  It's  as  simple  as  that." 

"No,"  said  I,  "the  damnable  complex  mystery 
of  it,  to  a  man's  mind,  is  that  five  should  be  the 
right  answer." 

She  dismissed  the  general  proposition  with  a  shrug. 

"Well,  there  it  is.  I  was  miserable  —  I've  been 
miserable  for  months  —  I  was  hung  up  in  Paris. 
I  had  this  impulse,  intuition  —  call  it  what  you 
like.  I  came  —  I  saw  —  and  I  wish  to  goodness  I 
hadn't!" 

"I  wasn't  so  wrong  after  all,  then,"  I  suggested 
mildly. 

She  laughed,  this  time  mirthlessly.  "I  should 
have  taken  it  for  a  warning.  Blue  Beard's  cham- 
ber. .  .  ." 

We  were  silent  for  a  while.  The  waiters  came 
scurrying  down  with  trays  and  cloths  and  cups  to 
set  the  tittle  tables  for  tea.  The  western  sun  had 
burst  below  the  awning  and  flooded  half  the  length 
of  the  terrace  with  light  leaving  us  by  the  wall  just 
a  strip  of  shade. 

I  said  as  gently  as  I  could:  "When  you  two 
parted  in  April,  I  thought  you  recognized  it  as 
final." 

"  It  would  have  been,  if  only  I  had  known,"  she 
said. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  269 

"Known  what?" 

She  answered  me  with  weary  impatience. 

"Anything  definite.  If  he  had  gone  to  his  death 
I  could  have  borne  it.  If  he  had  gone  to  any  exist- 
ence to  which  I  had  a  clue,  I  could  have  borne  it. 
But  don't  you  see?"  she  cried,  with  a  swift  return 
of  vitality.  "Here  was  a  man  whom  any  woman 
would  be  proud  to  love  —  a  strong  thing  of  flesh 
and  blood  —  disappearing  into  the  mist.  I  said 
something  heroical  to  him  about  the  creatures  of  the 
old  legends.  One  talks  high-falutin'  nonsense  at 
times.  But  I  didn't  realize  the  truth  of  it  till  after- 
wards. A  woman,  even  though  it  hurts  her  like 
the  devil,  prefers  to  keep  a  mental  grip  of  a  man. 
He's  there  —  in  Paris,  Bombay,  Omaha,  with  his 
wife  and  family,  doing  this,  that  and  the  other. 
He's  still  alive.  He's  still  in  some  kind  of  human 
relation  with  you.  You  grind  your  teeth  and  say 
that  it's  all  in  the  day's  work.  You  know  where 
you  are.  But  when  a  man  fades  out  of  your  life 
like  a  wraith  —  well  —  you  don't  know  where  you 
are.  It  has  been  maddening  —  the  ghastly  serious- 
ness of  it.  I've  done  my  best  to  keep  sane.  I'm 
a  woman  with  a  lot  of  physical  energy  —  I've  run 
it  for  all  it's  worth.  But  this  uncanny  business  got 
on  my  nerves.  If  the  man  had  not  cared  for  me,' 
I  would  have  kicked  myself  into  sense.  But  —  oh, 
it's  no  use  talking  about  that  —  it  goes  without 
saying.  Besides  you  know  as  well  as  I  do.  You've 
already  told  me.  Well  then,  you  have  it.  The  man 
I  loved,  the  man  who  loved  me,  goes  and  disap- 
pears, like  the  shooting  star  he  talked  about,  into 
space.  I've  done  all  sorts  of  fool  things  to  get  on 
his  track,  just  to  know.  At  last  I  came  to  you. 
But  I  had  no  notion  of  running  him  down  in  the 
flesh.  You're  sure  of  that,  Tony,  aren't  you?" 

The  Diana  in  her  flashed  from  candid  eyes. 

"Naturally,"  I  answered.     How  could  she  know 
that  Lackaday  was  here?    I  asked,  in  order  to  get 


270  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

to  the  bottom  of  this  complicated  emotional  con- 
dition: 

"  But  didn't  you  ever  think  of  writing  —  oh,  as 
a  friend  of  course  —  to  Lackaday,  care  of  War 
Office,  Cox's  .  .  .?" 

She  retorted:  "I'm  not  a  sloppy  school-girl,  my 
friend." 

"Quite  so,"  said  I.  I  paused,  while  the  waiter 
brought  tea.  "And  now  that  there's  no  longer  any 
mystery?" 

Her  bosom  rose  with  a  sigh. 

"I  mourn  my  mystery,  Tony." 

She  poured  out  tea.  I  passed  the  uninspiring 
food  that  accompanied  it.  We  conversed  in  a  lower 
key  of  tension.  At  last  she  said: 

If  I  don't  walk,  I'll  break  something." 

A  few  moments  afterwards  we  were  in  the  street. 
She  drew  the  breath  of  one  suffering  from  exhausted  air. 

"  Let  us  go  up  a  hill." 

Why  the  ordinary  human  being  should  ever  desire 
to  walk  up  hill  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover. 
For  me,  the  comfortable  places.  But  with  Lady 
Auriol  the  craving  was  symbolical  of  character.  I 


"Choose  the  least  inaccessible,"  I  pleaded. 

We  mounted  the  paths  through  the  vines.  At 
the  top,  we  sat  down.  I  wiped  a  perspiring  brow. 
She  filled  her  lungs  with  the  air  stirred  by  a  faint 
breeze. 

"Whereabouts  is  this  circus?"  she  asked  suddenly. 

I  told  her,  waving  a  hand  in  the  direction  of  Cler- 
mont-Ferrand. 

"How  far?" 

"About  two  or  three  miles." 

"I'll  go  there  this  evening,"  she  announced  calmly. 

"What?" 

I  nearly  jumped  off  the  wooden  bench. 

"My  dear  Auriol,"   said  I,   "my  heart's  dicky 
You  oughtn't  to  spring  things  like  that  on  me." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  271 

"I  don't  see  where  the  shock  comes  in.  Why 
shouldn't  I  go  to  a  circus  if  I  want  to?" 

"It's  your  wanting  to  go  that  astonishes  me." 

"You're  very  easily  surprised,"  she  remarked. 
"  You  ought  to  take  something  for  it." 

"  Possibly,"  said  I.  "  But  why  on  earth  do  you  want 
to  see  the  wretched  Lackaday  make  a  fool  of  himself?  " 

"If  you  take  it  that  way,"  she  said  icily,  "I'm 
sorry  I  mentioned  it.  I  could  have  gone  without 
your  being  a  whit  the  wiser." 

I  lifted  my  shoulders.  "After  all,  it's  entirely 
your  affair.  You  talked  a  while  ago  about  mourn- 
ing your  mystery  —  which  suggested  a  not  alto- 
gether unpoetical  frame  of  mind." 

"There  s  no  poetry  at  all  about  it,"  she  declared. 
"That's  all  gone.  We've  come  to  facts.  I'm  going 
to  get  all  the  facts.  Crucify  myself  with  facts,  if 
you  like.  That's  the  only  way  to  get  at  Truth." 

When  a  woman  of  Auriol's  worth  talks  like  this, 
one  feels  ashamed  to  counter  her  with  platitudes  of 
worldly  wisdom.  She  was  going  to  the  Cirque 
Vendramin.  Nothing  short  of  an  Act  of  God  could 
prevent  her.  I  sat  helpless  for  a  few  moments. 
At  last,  taking  advantage  of  a  gleam  of  common 
sense,  I  said: 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  try  to  get  to  the  bed- 
rock of  things.  But  what  about  Lackaday?" 

"He's  not  to  know." 

"He'll  have  to  know,"  I  insisted  warmly.  "The 
circus  tent  is  but  a  small  affair.  You'll  be  there 
under  his  nose."  I  followed  the  swift  change  on 
her  face.  "Of  course  —  if  you  don't  care  if  he 
sees  you.  ..." 

She  flashed:  "You  don't  suppose  I'm  capable  of 
such  cruelty!" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  I. 

She  looked  over  at  the  twin  spires  of  the  cathedral 
beneath  which  the  town  slumbered  in  the  blue  mist 
of  the  late  afternoon. 


272  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"Thanks,  Tony,"  she  said  presently.  "I  didn't 
think  of  it.  I  should  naturally  have  gone  to  the 
best  seats,  which  would  have  been  fatal.  But  I've 
been  in  many  circuses.  There's  always  the  top  row 
at  the  back,  next  the  canvas.  ..." 

"My  dear  good  child,"  I  cried,  "you  couldn't  go 
up  there  among  the  lowest  rabble  of  Clermont- 
Ferrand!" 

She  glanced  at  me  in  pity  and  sighed  indulgently. 

"You  talk  as  if  you  had  been  born  a  hundred 
years  ago,  and  had  never  heard  of  —  still  less  gone 

through  —  the  late  war.  What  the  "  she 

paused,  then  thrust  her  face  into  mine,  so  that  when 
she  spoke  I  felt  her  breath  on  my  cheek,  "  What  the 
Hell  do  you  think  I  care  about  the  rabble  of  Cler- 
mont-Ferrand ? ' ' 

That  she  would  walk  undismayed  into  a  den  of 
hyenas  or  Bolsheviks  or  {Temperance  Reformers  or 
any  other  benighted  savages  I  was  perfectly  aware. 
That  she  would  be  perfectly  able  to  fend  for  her- 
self I  have  no  doubt.  But  still,  among  the  unedu- 
ca'ted  dregs  of  the  sugar-less,  match-less,  tobacco- 
less  populace  of  a  French  provincial  town  who 
attributed  most  of  their  misfortunes  to  the  grasping 
astuteness  of  England,  we  were  not  peculiarly 
beloved. 

.This  I  explained  to  her,  while  she  continued  to 
smile  pityingly.  It  was  all  the  more  incentive  to 
adventure.  If  I  had  assured  her  that  she  would  be 
torn  limb  from  limb,  like  an  inconvincible  aristocrat 
flaunting  abroad  during  the  early  days  of  the  French 
Revolution,  she  would  have  grown  enthusiastic. 
Finally,  in  desperation  because,  in  my  own  way,  I 
was  fond  of  Auriol,  I  put  down  a  masculine  and 
protecting  foot. 

"You're  not  going  there  without  me,  anyhow," 
said  I. 

"I've  been  waiting  for  that  polite  offer  for  the 
last  half  hour,"  she  replied. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  273 

What  I  said,  I  said  to  myself  —  to  the  midmost 
self  of  my  inmost  being.  I  am  not  going  to  tell  you 
what  it  was.  This  isn't  the  secret  history  of  my  life. 

A  cloud  came  up  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hills. 
We  descended  to  the  miniature  valley  of  Royat. 

"It's  going  to  rain,"  I  said. 

"Let  it,"  said  Auriol  unconcerned. 

Then  began  as  dreary  an  evening  as  I  ever  have 
spent. 

We  dined,  long  before  anybody  else,  in  a  tempest 
of  rain  which  sent  down  the  thermometer  Heaven 
knows  how  many  degrees.  Half-way  through  dinner 
we  were  washed  from  the  terrace  into  the  empty 
dining-room.  There  was  thunder  and  lightning  ad 
libitum. 

"A  night  like  this  —  it's  absurd,"  said  I. 

"The  absurder  the  better,"  she  replied.  "You 
stay  at  home,  Tony  dear.  You're  a  valetudinarian. 
I'll  look  after  myself." 

But  this  could  not  be  done.  I  have  my  obstina- 
cies as  mulish  as  other  people's. 

"If  you  go,  I  go." 

"As  you  have,  according  to  your  pampered 
habit,  bought  a  car  from  now  till  midnight,  I  don't 
see  how  we  can  fait  to  keep  dry  and  warm." 

I  had  no  argument  left.  Of  course,  I  hate  to 
swallow  an  early  and  rapid  dinner.  One  did  such 
things  in  the  war,  gladly  dislocating  an  elderly  diges- 
tion in  the  service  of  one's  country.  In  peace  time 
one  demands  a  compensating  leisure.  But  this 
would  be  comprehensible  only  to  a  well-trained 
married  woman.  My  misery  would  have  been  out- 
side Auriol's  ken.  I  meekly  said  nothing.  The 
world  of  young  women  knows  nothing  of  its  greatest 
martyrs. 

When  it  starts  thundering  and  lightening  in 
Royat,  it  goes  on  for  hours.  The  surrounding 
mountains  play  an  interminable  game  of  which  the 
thunderbolt  is  the  football.  They  make  an  infernal 


274  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

noise  about  it,  and  the  denser  the  deluge  the  more 
they  exult. 

Amid  the  futile  flashes  and  silly  thunderings — 
no  man  who  has  been  under  an  intensive  bombard- 
ment can  have  any  respect  left  for  the  pitiful  foolery 
of  a  thunderstorm  —  and  a  drenching  downpour  of 
rain  (which  is  solid  business  on  the  part  of  Nature) 
we  scuttled  from  the  hired  car  to  the  pay-desk  of 
the  circus.  We  were  disguised  in  caps  and  bur- 
berrys,  and  Lady  Auriol  had  procured  a  black  veil 
from  some  shop  in  Royat.  We  paid  our  fifty  cen- 
times and  entered  the  vast  emptiness  of  the  tent. 
We  were  far  too  early,  finding  only  half  a  dozen 
predecessors.  We  climbed  to  the  remotest  Alpine 
height  of  benches.  The  wet,  cold  canvas  radiated 
rheumatism  into  our  backs.  A  steady  drip  from 
the  super-saturated  tent  above  us  descended  on  our 
heads  and  down  our  necks.  Auriol  buttoned  the 
collar  of  her  burberry  and  smiled  through  her  veil. 

"It's  like  old  times." 

"Old  times  be  anythinged,"  said  I,  vainly  trying 
to  find  comfort  on  six  inches  of  rough  boarding. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  come,  Tony,'  she 
said  after  a  while.  "You  can't  think  what  a  help 
it  is  to  have  you  with  me." 

"  If  you  think  to  mollify  me  with  honeyed  words," 
said  I,  "you  have  struck  the  wrong  animal." 

It  is  well  to  show  a  woman,  now  and  then,  that 
you  are  not  entirely  her  dupe. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  mine.  "I  mean  it,  dear. 
Really.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  having  an  evening 
out?" 

We  continued  the  intimate  sparring  bout  for  a 
while  longer.  Then  we  lapsed  into  silence  and 
watched  the  place  gradually  fill  with  the  populace 
of  Clermont-Ferrand.  The  three  top  tiers  soon 
became  crowded.  The  rest  were  but  thinly  peopled. 
But  there  was  a  sufficient  multitude  of  garlic-eating, 
unwashed  humanity,  to  say  nothing  of  the  natural 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  275 

circus  smell,  to  fill  unaccustomed  nostrils  with 
violent  sensations.  A  private  soldier  is  a  gallant 
fellow,  and  ordinarily  you  feel  a  comfortable  sense 
of  security  in  his  neighbourhood;  but  when  he  is 
wet  through  and  steaming,  the  fastidious  would 
prefer  the  chance  of  perils.  And  there  were  many 
steaming  warriors  around  us. 

There  we  sat,  at  any  rate,  wedged  in  a  mass  as 
vague  and  cohesive  as  chocolate  creams  running 
into  one  another.  I  had  beside  me  a  fat,  damp  lady 
whose  wet  umbrella  dripped  into  my  shoes.  Lady 
Auriol  was  flanked  by  a  lean,  collarless  man  in  a 
cloth-cap  who  made  sarcastic  remarks  to  soldier 
friends  on  the  tier  below  on  the  capitalist  occupiers 
of  the  three-franc  seats.  The  dreadful  circus  band 
began  to  blare.  The  sudden  and  otherwise  un- 
heralded entrance  of  a  lady  on  a  white  horse  followed 
by  the  ring  master  made  us  realize  that  the  perform- 
ance had  begun.  The  show  ran  its  course.  The 
clowns  went  through  their  antiquated  antics  to  the 
delight  of  the  simple  folk  by  whom  we  were  sur- 
rounded. A  child  did  a  slack  wire  act,  waving  a 
Japanese  umbrella  over  her  head.  Some  acrobats 
played  about  on  horizontal  bars.  We  both  sat  for- 
ward on  our  narrow  bench,  elbows  on  knees  and 
face  in  hands,  saying  nothing,  practically  seeing 
nothing,  aware  only  of  a  far  off,  deep  down,  infernal 
pit  in  which  was  being  played  the  Orcagnesque 
prelude  to  a  bizarre  tragedy.  I,  who  had  gone 
through  the  programme  before,  yet  suffered  the 
spell  of  Auriol's  suspense.  Long  before  she  had 
thrown  aside  the  useless  veil.  In  these  dim  altitudes 
no  one  could  be  recognized  from  the  ring.  Her 
knuckles  were  bent  into  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes 
were  staring  down  into  that  pit  of  despair.  We 
had  no  programme;  I  had  not  retained  in  my  head 
the  sequence  of  turns.  Now  it  was  all  confused. 
The  pervasive  clowns  alone  seemed  to  give  what 
was  happening  below  a  grotesque  coherence. 


276  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Suddenly  the  ring  was  empty  for  a  second.  Then 
with  exaggerated  strides  marched  in  a  lean  high- 
heeled  monster  in  green  silk  tights  reaching  to  his 
armpits,  topped  with  a  scarlet  wig  ending  in  a  foot 
high  point.  He  wore  white  cotton  gloves  dropping 
an  inch  from  the  finger  tips,  and  he  carried  a  fiddle 
apparently  made  out  of  a  cigar  box  and  a  broom 
handle.  His  face  painted  red  and  white  was  made 
up  into  an  idiot  grin.  He  opened  his  mouth  at  the 
audience,  who  applauded  mildly. 

Lady  Auriol  still  sat  in  her  bemused  attitude  of 
suspense.  I  watched  her  perplexedly  for  a  second 
or  two,  and  then  I  saw  she  had  not  recognized  him. 
I  said: 

"That's  Lackaday." 

She  gasped.  Sat  bolt  upright,  and  uttered  an 
"Oh-h!  '  a  horrible  little  moan,  not  quite  human, 
almost  that  of  a  wounded  animal,  and  her  face  was 
stricken  into  tense  ugliness.  Her  hand,  stretched 
out  instinctively,  found  mine  and  held  it  in  an  iron 
grip.  She  said  in  a  quavering  voice: 
I  wish  I  hadn't  come." 

"I  wish  I  could  get  you  out,"  said  I. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  no.  It  would  be  giving  myself  away.  I 
must  see  it  through." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  relinquished  my  hand, 
turned  to  me  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"I'm  all  right  now.    Don  t  worry." 

She  sat  like  a  statue  during  the  performance.  It 
was  quite  a  different  performance  from  the  one  I 
had  seen  a  few  days  before.  It  seemed  to  fail  not 
only  in  the  magnetic  contact  between  artist  and 
audience,  but  in  technical  perfection.  And  Elodie, 
whom  I  had  admired  as  a  vital  element  in  this  com- 
bination, so  alive,  so  smiling,  so  reponsive,  appeared 
a  merely  mechanical  figure,  an  exactly  regulated 
automaton. 

My  heart  sank  into  my  shoes,  already  chilled  with 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  277 

the  drippings  of  my  fat  neighbour's  umbrella.  If 
Lackaday  had  burst  out  on  Lady  Auriol  as  the  tri- 
umphant, exquisite  artist,  there  might,  in  spite  of 
the  unheroic  travesty  of  a  man  in  which  he  was 
invested,  have  been  some  cause  for  pride  in  extraor- 
dinary, crowd-compelling  achievement.  The  touch 
of  genius  is  a  miraculous  solvent.  But  here  was 
something  second-rate,  third-rate,  half-hearted  — 
though  I,  who  knew,  saw  that  the  man  was  sweat- 
ing blood  to  exceed  his  limitations.  Here  was 
merely  an  undistinguished  turn  in  a  travelling  circus 
which  folk  like  Lady  Auriol  Dayne  only  visited  in 
idle  moods  of  good-humoured  derision. 

He  went  through  it  not  quite  to  the  bitter  end, 
for  I  noted  that  he  cut  out  the  finale  of  the  elongated 
violin.  There  was  perfunctory  applause,  a  perfunc- 
tory call.  After  he  had  made  his  bow,  hand  in 
hand  with  Elodie,  he  retired  in  careless  silence  and 
was  nearly  knocked  down  by  the  reappearing  lady 
on  the  broad  white  horse. 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Auriol. 

We  threaded  our  way  down  the  break-neck  tiers 
of  seats  and  eventually  emerged  into  the  open  air. 
Our  hired  car  was  waiting.  The  full  moon  shone 
down  in  a  clear  sky  in  the  amiable  way  that  the 
moon  has  —  as  though  she  said  with  an  intimate 
smile  —  "My  dear  fellow  —  clouds?  Rain?  I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing.  You  must  be 
suffering  from  some  delusion.  I've  been  shining 
on  you  like  this  for  centuries."  I  made  a  casual 
reference  to  the  beauty  of  the  night. 

"It  ought  to  be  still  raining,"  said  Lady  Auriol. 

We  drove  back  to  Royat  in  silence.  I  racked  my 
brains  for  something  to  say,  but  everything  that 
occurred  to  me  seemed  the  flattest  of  uncomfort- 
ing  commonplaces. 

Well,  it  was  her  affair  entirely.  If  she  had  given 
me  some  opening  I  might  have  responded  sympa- 
thetically. But  there  she  sat  by  my  side  in  the  car, 


278  THE   MOUNTEBANK 

rigid  and  dank.  For  all  that  I  could  gather  from 
her  attitude,  some  iron  had  entered  into  her  soul. 
She  was  a  dead  woman. 

The  car  stopped  at  the  hotel  door.  We  entered. 
A  few  yards  down  the  hall  the  lift  waited.  We 
went  up  together.  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  on 
her  face.  I  shall  always  associate  it  with  the  pic- 
ture of  Mrs.  Siddons  as  the  Tragic  Muse.  The  lift 
stopped  at  my  floor.  Her  room  was  higher. 

I  bade  her  good  night. 

She  wrung  my  hand.  "Good  night,  Tony,  and 
my  very  grateful  thanks." 

I  slipped  out  and  watched  her  whisked,  an  in- 
scrutable mystery,  upwards. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  first  sign  of  commotion  in  the  morning 
was  a  note  from  Bakkus,  whose  turn  it  was 
to  act  as  luncheon  host.  Our  friends  at 
Clermont-Ferrand,  said  he,  had  cried  off.  They 
had  also  asked  him  to  go  over  and  see  them.  Would 
I  be  so  kind  as  to  regard  this  as  a  dies  non  in  the 
rota  of  our  pleasant  gatherings? 

I  dressed  and  bought  some  flowers,  which  I  sent 
up  to  Lady  Auriol  with  a  polite  message.  The 
chasseur  returned  saying  that  Miladi  had  gone  out 
about  half  an  hour  before. 

"You  don't  mean  that  she  has  left  the  hotel  with 
her  luggage?" 

The  boy  smiled  reassurance.  She  had  only  gone 
for  a  walk.  I  breathed  freely.  It  would  have  been 
just  like  her  to  go  off  by  the  first  tram. 

I  suffered  my  treatment,  drank  my  glasses  of 
horrible  water  and  again  enquired  at  the  hotel  for 
Lady  Auriol.  She  had  not  yet  returned.  Having 
nothing  to  do,  I  took  my  Moniteur  du  Puy  de  Dome, 
which  I  had  not  read,  to  the  cafe  which  commands 
a  view  of  the  park  gates  and  the  general  going  and 
coming  of  Royat.  Presently,  from  the  tram  ter- 
minus I  saw  advancing  the  familiar  gaunt  figure  of 
Lackaday.  I  was  glad,  I  scarcely  knew  why,  to 
note  that  he  wore  a  grey  soft  felt  instead  of  the 
awful  straw  hat.  I  rose  to  greet  him,  and  invited 
him  to  my  table. 

"I  would  join  you  with  pleasure,"  said  he,  "but 
I  am  thinking  of  paying  my  respects  to  Lady  Auriol." 

When  I  told  him  that  he  would  not  find  her,  he 
sat  down.  We  could  keep  an  eye  on  the  hotel  en- 
trance, I  remarked. 

4  279 


280  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"Our  lunch  with  Bakkus  is  off,"  said  I. 

"Yes.  I'm  sorry.  I  rang  him  up  early  this  morn- 
ing. Elodie  isn't  quite  herself  to-day." 

"The  thunder  last  night,  perhaps." 

He  nodded.    "Women  have  nerves." 

That  something  had  happened  was  obvious.  I 
remembered  last  night's  half-hearted  performance. 

"By  the  way,"  said  I,  "Bakkus  mentioned  in  his 
note  that  he  was  going  over  to  Clermont-Ferrand 
to  see  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Lackaday,  "I  left  him  there.  He 
has  marvellous  tact  and  influence  when  he  chooses 
to  exert  them.  A  man  thrown  away  on  the  triviali- 
ties of  life.  He  was  born  to  be  a  Cardinal.  I'm  so 
glad  you  have  taken  to  him." 

I  murmured  mild  eulogy  of  Bakkus.  We  spoke 
idly  of  his  beautiful  voice.  Conversation  languished, 
Lackaday 's  eyes  being  turned  to  the  entrance  of  the 
hotel  some  fifty  yards  away  up  the  sloping  street. 

"I'm  anxious  not  to  miss  Lady  Auriol, '  he  said 
at  last.  "It  will  be  my  only  chance  of  seeing  her. 
We're  off  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Our  engagement  ends  to-night.  We're  due  at 
Vichy  next  week." 

I  had  not  realized  the  flight  of  the  pleasant  days. 
But  yet  —  I  was  puzzled.  Yesterday  there  had  been 
no  talk  of  departure.  I  mentioned  my  surprise. 

"  I  have  ended  the  engagement  of  my  own  accord," 
said  he.  "The  management  had  engaged  another 
star  turn  for  to-day  —  overlapping  mine.  A  breach 
of  contract  which  gave  me  the  excuse  for  terminat- 
ing it.  I  don't  often  stand  on  the  vain  dignity  of  the 
so-called  artist,  but  this  time  I've  been  glad  to  do  so." 

"The  atmosphere  of  the  circus  is  scarcely  con- 
genial," said  I. 

"That's  it.  I'm  too  big  for  my  boots,  or  my 
head's  too  big  for  my  hat.  And  the  management 
are  not  sorry  to  save  a  few  days'  salary." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  281 

"But  during  these  few  days P" 

"We  wait  at  Vichy." 

He  spoke  woodenly,  his  lined  face  set  hard. 

"  I  shall  miss  you  tremendously,  my  dear  fellow," 
said  I. 

"I  shall  miss  your  company  even  more,"  said  he. 

"We  won't,  at  any  rate,  say  good-bye  to-day," 
I  ventured.  "There  are  cars  to  be  hired,  and 
Vichy  from  the  car  point  of  view  is  close  by." 

"You,  my  dear  Hylton,  I  shall  be  delighted  to 
see." 

The  emphasis  on  the  pronoun  would  have  rendered 
his  meaning  clear  to  even  a  more  obtuse  man  than 
myself.  No  Lady  Auriols  flaunting  over  to  Vichy. 

"May  I  ask  when  you  came  to  this  decision?"  I 
enquired.  "Bakkus's  note  suggested  only  a  post- 
ponement of  our  meeting." 

"Last  night,"  said  he.  "That's  one  reason  why 
I  sent  for  Bakkus." 

"I  see,"  said  I.  But  I  did  not  tell  him  what  I 
saw.  It  looked  as  though  the  gallant  fellow  were 
simply  running  away* 

Soon  afterwards,  to  my  great  relief,  there  came 
Lady  Auriol  swinging  along  on  the  other  side  of 
the  pavement.  The  cafe,  you  must  know,  forms  a 
corner.  To  the  left,  the  park  and  the  tram  terminus; 
to  the  right,  the  street  leading  to  the  post  office 
and  then  dwindling  away  vaguely  up  the  hill.  It 
was  along  this  street  that  Lady  Auriol  came,  short- 
skirted,  flushed  with  exercise,  rather  dusty  and  di- 
shevelled. I  stood  and  waved  an  arresting  hand. 
She  hesitated  for  a  second  and  then  crossed  the 
road  and  met  us  outside  the  cafe.  I  offered  a  seat 
at  our  table  within.  She  declined  with  a  gesture. 
We  all  stood  for  a  while  and  then  went  diagonally 
over  to  the  park  entrance. 

"I've  been  such  a  walk,"  she  declared.  "Miles 
and  miles  —  through  beautiful  country  and  pictur- 
esque villages.  You  ought  to  explore.  It's  worth  it." 


282  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"I  know  the  district  of  old,"  said  Lackaday. 

"  I'm  tremendously  struck  with  the  beauty  of  the 
women  of  Auvergne." 

"  They're  the  pure  type  of  old  Gaul,"  said  Lackaday. 

She  put  up  a  hand  to  straying  hair.  "I'm  falling 
to  pieces.  I  have  but  two  desires  in  the  world  —  a 
cold  bath  and  food.  Perhaps  I  shall  see  you  later." 

He  stood  unflinching,  like  a  soldier  condemned 
for  crime.  I  wondered  at  her  indifference.  He  said: 

"Unfortunately  I  can't  have  that  pleasure.  My 
engagements  take  up  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  to- 
morrow I  leave  Clermont-Ferrand.  I  shan't  have 
another  opportunity  of  seeing  you." 

Their  eyes  met  and  his,  calm  yet  full  of  pain, 
dominated.  She  thrust  her  hand  through  my  arm. 

"Very  well  then,  let  us  get  into  the  shade." 

We  entered  the  park,  found  an  empty  bench  be- 
neath the  trees  and  sat  down,  Auriol  between  us. 
She  said: 

"Do  you  mean  at  Roy  at  or  in  the  world  hi 
general?" 

"Perhaps  the  latter." 

She  laughed  queerly.  "As  chance  has  thrown  us 
together  here,  it  will  possibly  do  the  same  some- 
where else." 

"My  sphere  isn't  yours,"  said  he.  "If  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  accident  of  Hylton  being  here,  we 
should  not  have  met  now." 

"Captain  Hylton  had  nothing  to  do  with  it," 
she  said  warmly.  "I  had  no  notion  that  you  were 
at  Clermont-Ferrand." 

"I'm  quite  aware  of  that,  Lady  Auriol." 

She  flushed,  vexed  at  having  said  a  foolish  thing. 

"And  Captain  Hylton  had  no  notion  that  I  was 
coming." 

"Perfectly,"  said  Lackaday. 

"Well?"  she  said  after  a  pause. 

"I  came  over  to  Royat,  this  morning,"  said 
Lackaday,  "to  call  on  you  and  bid  you  good-bye." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  283 

"Why?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"It  appeared  to  be  ordinary  courtesy." 

"Was  there  anything  particular  you  wanted  to 
say  to  me?" 

"Perhaps  to  supplement  just  the  little  I  could 
tell  you  yesterday  afternoon." 

"Captain  Hylton  supplemented  it  after  you  left. 
Oh,  he  was  very  discreet.  But  there  were  a  few 
odds  and  ends  that  needed  straightening  out.  If 
you  had  been  frank  with  me  from  the  beginning, 
there  would  have  been  no  need  of  it.  As  it  was, 
I  had  to  clear  everything  up.  If  I  had  known  ex- 
actly, I  should  not  have  gone  to  the  circus  last 
night."  i 

His  eyelids  fluttered  like  those  of  a  man  who  has 
received  a  bullet  through  him,  and  his  mouth  set 
grimly. 

"You  might  have  spared  me  that,"  said  he.  He 
bent  forward.  "Hylton,  why  did  you  let  her  do 
it?" 

"  I  might  just  as  well  have  tried  to  stop  the  thun- 
der," said  I,  seeing  no  reason  why  this  young  woman 
should  not  bear  the  blame  for  her  folly. 

"A  circus  is  a  comfortless  place  of  entertain- 
ment," he  said,  in  the  familiar,  even  voice.  "I  wish 
it  had  been  a  proper  theatre.  What  did  you  think 
of  the  performance?" 

She  straightened  herself  upright,  turned  and 
looked  at  him;  then  looked  away  in  front  of  her: 
a  sharp  breath  or  two  caused  a  little  convulsive 
heave  of  her  bosom;  to  my  astonishment  I  saw 
great  tears  run  down  her  cheeks  on  to  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  on  her  lap.  As  soon  as  she  realized 
it,  she  dashed  her  hands  roughly  over  her  eyes. 
Lackaday  ventured  the  tip  of  his  finger  on  her 
sleeve. 

"It's  a  sorry  show,  isn't  it?  I'm  not  very  proud 
of  myself.  But  perhaps  you  understand  now  why 
I  left  you  in  ignorance." 


284  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"Yet  you  told  Anthony.    Why  not  me?" 

I  was  about  to  rise,  this  being  surely  a  matter 
for  them  to  battle  out  between  themselves,  but  I 
at  once  felt  her  powerful  grip  on  my  arm.  Whether 
she  was  afraid  of  herself  or  of  Lackaday,  I  did  not 
know.  Anyway,  I  seemed  to  represent  to  her  some 
kind  of  human  dummy  which  could  be  used,  at 
need,  as  a  sentimental  buffer. 

"I  presume,"  she  continued,  "I  was  quite  as 
intimate  a  friend  as  Anthony?" 

"Quite,"  said  he.  "But  Hylton's  a  man  and 
you're  a  woman.  There  can  be  no  comparison. 
You  are  on  different  planes  of  sentiment.  For 
instance,  Hylton,  loyal  friend  as  he  is,  has  not  to 
my  knowledge  done  me  the  honour  of  shedding 
tears  over  Petit  Patou." 

I  felt  horribly  out  of  place  on  the  bench  in  this 
public  leafy  park,  beside  these  two  warring  lovers. 
But  it  was  most  humanly  interesting.  Lackaday 
seemed  to  be  reinvested  with  the  dignity  of  the  man 
as  I  had  first  met  him,  a  year  ago. 

"Anthony —  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  her 
repeated  change  of  her  term  of  reference  to  me, 
from  the  formal  Captain  Hylton  to  my  Christian 
name,  sprang  from  an  instinctive  desire  to  put  her- 
self on  more  intimate  terms  with  Lackaday  — 
"Anthony,"  she  said  in  her  defiant  way,  "would 
have  cried,  if  he  could." 

Lackaday's  features  relaxed  into  his  childlike  smile. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  '"The  little  more  and  how  much 
it  is.  The  little  less  and  how  far  away."' 

She  was  silent.  Although  the  situation  was  pain- 
ful, I  could  not  help  feeling  the  ironical  satisfac- 
tion that  she  was  getting  the  worst  of  the  encounter. 
I  was  glad,  because  I  thought  she  had  treated  him 
cruelly.  The  unprecedented  tears,  however,  were 
signs  of  grace.  Yet  the  devil  in  her  suggested  a 
riposte. 

"I  hope  Madame  Patou  is  quite  well." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  285 

Lackaday's  smile  faded  into  the  mask. 

"Last  night's  thunderstorm  upset  her  a  little  — 
but  otherwise  —  yes  —  she  is  quite  well." 

He  rose.    Lady  Auriol  cried: 

"You're  not  going  already?" 

His  ear  caught  a  new  tone,  for  he  smiled  again. 

"I  must  get  back  to  Clermont-Ferrand.  Good- 
bye, Hylton." 

We  shook  hands. 

"  Good-bye,  old  chap,"  said  I.    "  We'll  meet  soon." 

Auriol  rose  and  turned  on  me  an  ignoring  back. 
As  I  did  not  seem  to  exist  any  longer,  I  faded 
shadow-like  away  to  the  park  gate,  where  I  hung 
about  until  Auriol  should  join  me. 

As  to  what  happened  between  them  then,  I  must 
rely  on  her  own  report,  which,  as  you  shall  learn, 
she  gave  me  later. 

They  stood  for  a  while  after  I  had  gone.  Then 
he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Lady  Auriol,"  said  he. 

"No,"  she  said.  "There  are  things  which  we 
really  ought  to  say  to  each  other.  You  do  believe 
I  wish  I  had  never  come?" 

"I  can  quite  understand,"  said  he,  stiffly. 

"  It  hurts,"  she  said. 

"Why  should  it  matter  so  much?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  —  but  it  does." 

He  drew  himself  up  and  his  face  grew  stern. 

"I  don't  cease  to  be  an  honourable  man  because 
of  my  profession;  or  to  be  worthy  of  respect  because 
I  am  loyal  to  sacred  obligations." 

"You  put  me  in  the  wrong,"  she  said.  "And  I 
deserve  it.  But  it  all  hurts.  It  hurts  dreadfully. 
Can't  you  see?  The  awful  pity  of  it?  You  of  all 
men  to  be  condemned  to  a  fife  like  this.  And  you 
suffer  too.  It  all  hurts." 

"Remember,"  said  he,  "it  was  the  life  to  which 
I  was  bred." 

She  felt  hopeless.    "It's  my  own  fault  for  com- 


286  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

ing,"  she  said.  "I  should  have  left  things  as  they 
were  when  we  parted  in  April.  There  was  beauty 
—  you  made  it  quite  clear  that  our  parting  was 
final.  You  couldn't  have  acted  otherwise.  Forgive 
me  for  all  I've  said.  I  pride  myself  on  being  a  prac- 
tical woman;  but  —  for  that  reason  perhaps  —  I'm 
unused  to  grappling  with  emotional  situations.  If 
I've  been  unkind,  it's  because  I've  been  stabbing 
myself  and  forgetting  I'm  stabbing  you  at  the 
same  time." 

He  walked  a  pace  or  two  further  with  her.  For 
the  first  time  he  seemed  to  recognize  what  he, 
Andrew  Lackaday,  had  meant  to  her. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  never  dreamed 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  such  concern  to  you.  If 
I  had,  I  shouldn't  have  left  you  in  any  doubt.  To 
me  you  were  the  everything  that  man  can  conceive 
in  woman.  I  wanted  to  remain  in  your  memory 
as  the  man  the  war  had  made  me.  Vanity  or  pride, 
I  don't  know.  We  all  have  our  failings.  I  wor- 
shipped you  as  the  Princesse  Lointaine.  I  never 
told  you  that  I  am  a  man  who  has  learned  to  keep 
himself  under  control.  Perhaps  under  too  much 
control.  I  shouldn't  tell  you  now,  if  - 

"You  don't  suppose  I'm  a  fool,"  she  interrupted. 
"I  knew.  And  the  Verity-Stewarts  knew.  And 
even  my  little  cousin  Evadne  knew." 

They  still  strolled  along  the  path  under  the  trees. 
He  said  after  a  while: 

"  I'm  afraid  I  have  made  things  very  difficult  for 
you." 

She  was  pierced  with  remorse.  "Oh,  how  like 
you!  Any  other  man  would  have  put  it  the  other 
way  round  and  accused  me  of  making  things  diffi- 
cult for  him.  And  he  would  have  been  right.  For 
I  did  come  here  to  get  news  of  you  from  Anthony 
Hylton.  He  was  so  discreet  that  I  felt  that  he  could 
tell  me  something.  And  I  came  and  found  you  and 
have  made  things  difficult  for  you." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  287 

He  said  in  his  sober  way:  "Perhaps  it  is  for  the 
best  that  we  have  met  and  had  this  talk.  We  ought 
to  have  had  it  months  ago,  but — "he  turned  his 
face  wistfully  on  her  —  "we  couldn't,  because  I 
didn't  know.  Anyhow,  it's  all  over." 

"Yes,"  she  signed.  "It's  all  over.  We're  up 
against  the  stone  wall  of  practical  life." 

"Quite  so,"  said  he.  "I  am  Petit  Patou,  the 
mountebank;  my  partner  is  Madame  Patou,  whom 
I  have  known  since  I  was  a  boy  of  twenty,  to  whom 
I  am  bound  by  indissoluble  ties  of  mutual  fidelity, 
loyalty  and  gratitude;  and  you  are  the  Lady  Auriol 
Dayne.  We  live,  as  I  said  before,  in  different 
spheres." 

"That's  cpiite  true,"  she  said.  "We  have  had 
our  queer  romance.  It  won't  hurt  us.  It  will 
sweeten  our  lives.  But,  as  you  say,  it's  over.  It 
has  to  be  over." 

"There's  no  way  out,"  said  he.  "It's  doubly 
locked.  Good-bye." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  hand.  To  the  casual 
French  valetudinarians  sitting  and  strolling  in  the 
park,  it  was  nothing  but  a  social  formality.  But 
to  Auriol  the  touch  of  his  lips  meant  the  final  part- 
ing of  their  lives,  the  consecrated  burial  of  their 
love. 

She  lingered  for  a  few  moments  watching  his 
long,  straight  back  disappear  round  the  corner  of 
the  path,  and  then  turned  and  joined  me  by  the 
park  gate.  On  our  way  to  the  hotel  the  only  thing 
she  said  was: 

"I  don't  seem  to  have  much  chance,  do  I,  Tony?" 

It  was  after  lunch,  while  we  sat,  as  the  day  before, 
at  the  end  of  the  terrace,  that  she  told  me  of  what 
had  taken  place  between  Lackaday  and  herself, 
while  I  had  been  hanging  about  the  gate.  I  must 
confess  to  pressing  her  confidence.  Since  I  was 
lugged,  even  as  a  sort  of  raisonneur,  into  their  little 
drama,  I  may  be  pardoned  for  some  curiosity  as 


288  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

to  development.  I  did  not  seem,  however,  to  get 
much  further.  They  had  parted  for  ever,  last  April, 
in  a  not  unpoetic  atmosphere.  They  had  parted 
for  ever  now  in  circumstances  devoid  of  poetry. 
The  only  bit  of  dramatic  progress  was  the  mutual 
avowal,  apparently  dragged  out  of  them.  It  was 
almost  an  anticlimax.  And  then  dead  stop.  I  put 
these  points  before  her.  She  agreed  dismally. 
Bitterly  reproached  herself  for  giving  way  in  Paris 
to  womanish  folly;  also  for  deliberately  bringing 
about  the  morning's  explanation. 

"You  were  cruel  —  which  is  utterly  unlike  you," 
I  said,  judicially. 

"That  horrible  green,  white  and  red  thing  haunted 
me  all  night  —  and  that  fat  woman  bursting  out  of 
her  clothes.  I  felt  shrivelled  up.  If  only  I  had  left 
things  as  they  were!"  She  harped  always  on  that 
note.  "I  thought  I  could  walk  myself  out  of  my 
morbid  frame  of  mind.  Oh  yes  —  you're  quite 
right  —  morbid  —  unlike  me.  I  walked  miles  and 
miles.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  return  to  Paris  by 
the  night  train.  I  should  never  see  him  again. 
The  whole  thing  was  dead.  Killed.  Washed  out. 
I  had  got  back  some  sense  when  I  ran  into  the  two 
of  you.  It  seemed  so  ghastly  to  go  on  talking  in 
that  cold,  dry  way.  I  longed  to  goad  him  into 
some  sort  of  expression  of  himself  —  to  find  the 
man  again.  That's  why  I  told  him  about  going 
to  the  circus  last  night." 

She  went  on  in  this  strain.  Presently  she  said: 
"I  could  shed  tears  of  blood  over  him.  Don't 
think  I'm  filled  merely  with  selfish  disgust.  As  I 
told  him  —  the  pity  of  it  —  all  that  he  must  have 
suffered  —  for  he  has  suffered,  hasn't  he?" 

"He  has  gone  through  Hell,"  said  I. 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then  she 
said:  "What's  the  good  of  going  round  and  round 
in  a  circle?  You  either  understand  or  you  don't." 

By  way  of  consolation  I  mendaciously  assured  her 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  289 

that  I  understood.  I  don't  think  I  understand 
now.  I  doubt  whether  she  understood  herself.  Her 
emotions  were  literally  going  round  and  round  in 
a  circle,  a  hideous  merry-go-round  with  fixed  star- 
ing features,  to  be  passed  and  repassed  in  the 
eternal  gyration.  Horror  of  Petit  Patou.  Her  love 
for  Lackaday.  Madame  Patou.  Hatred  of  Lacka- 
day.  Scorching  self-contempt  for  seeking  him  out. 
Petit  Patou  and  Madame  Patou.  Lackaday  cruci- 
fied. Infinite  pity  for  Lackaday.  General  Lacka- 
day. Old  dreams.  The  lost  illusion.  The  tomb  of 
love.  Horror  of  Petit  Patou  —  and  so  da  capo, 
endlessly  round  and  round. 

At  least,  this  figure  gave  me  the  only  clue  to  her 
frame  of  mind.  If  she  went  on  gyrating  in  this  way 
indefinitely,  she  must  go  mad.  No  human  con- 
sciousness could  stand  it.  For  sanity  she  must  stop 
at  some  point.  The  only  rational  halting-place 
was  at  the  Tomb.  If  I  knew  my  Auriol,  she  would 
drop  a  flower  and  a  tear  on  it,  and  then  would  start 
on  a  bee-line  for  Central  Tartary,  or  whatever 
expanse  of  the  world's  surface  offered  a  satisfactory 
field  for  her  energies. 

She  swallowed  the  stone-cold,  half-remaining 
coffee  in  her  cup  and  rose  and  stretched  herself, 
arms  and  back  and  bust,  like  a  magnificent  animal, 
the  dark  green,  silken  knitted  jumper  that  she 
wore  revealing  all  her  great  and  careless  curves,  and 
drew  a  long  breath  and  smiled  at  me. 

"I've  not  slept  for  two  nights  and  I've  walked 
twelve  miles  this  morning.  I'll  turn  in  till  dinner." 
She  yawned.  "Poor  old  Tony,"  she  laughed. 
"You  can  have  it  at  a  Christian  hour  this  evening." 

"The  one  bright  gleam  in  a  hopeless  day,"  said  I. 

She  laughed  again,  blew  me  a  kiss  and  went  her 
way  to  necessary  repose. 

I  remained  on  the  terrace  a  while  longer,  in  order 
to  finish  a  long  corona-corona,  forbidden  by  my 
doctors.  But  I  reflected  that  as  the  showman 


290  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

makes  up  on  the  swings  what  he  loses  on  the  rounda- 
bouts, so  I  made  up  on  the  filthy  water  what  I  lost 
on  the  cigars.  How  I  provided  myself  with  excellent 
corona-coronas  in  Royat,  under  the  Paris  price,  I 
presume,  of  ten  francs  apiece,  wild  reporters  will 
never  drag  out  of  me.  I  mused,  therefore,  over  the 
last  smokable  half-inch,  and  at  last,  discarding  it 
reluctantly,  I  sought  well-earned  slumber  in  my 
room.  But  I  could  not  sleep.  All  this  imbroglio 
kept  me  awake.  Also  the  infernal  band  began  to 
play.  I  had  not  thought  —  indeed,  I  had  had  no 
time  to  think  of  the  note  from  Bakkus  which  I  had 
received  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  of 
Lackaday's  confirmation  of  the  summons  to  the 
ailing  Elodie.  Women,  said  he,  had  nerves.  The 
thunder,  of  course.  But,  thought  I,  with  elderly 
sagacity,  was  it  all  thunder? 

As  far  as  I  could  gather,  from  Lackaday's  con- 
fessions he  had  never  given  Elodie  cause  for  jealousy 
from  the  time  they  had  become  Les  Petit  Patou. 
Her  rout  of  the  suggestive  Ernestine  proved  her 
belief  in  his  insensibility  to  woman's  attractions 
during  the  war.  She  had  never  heard  of  Lady 
Auriol.  Lady  Auriol,  therefore,  must  have  bounded 
like  a  tiger  into  the  placid  compound  of  her  life. 
Reason  enough  for  a  crise  des  nerfs.  Even  I,  who 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  found  my  equilibrium 
disturbed. 

Lady  Auriol  and  I  dined  together.  She  declared 
herself  rested  and  in  her  right  and  prosaic  mind. 

"I  have  no  desire  to  lose  your  company,"  said  I, 
"so  I  hope  there's  no  more  talk  of  an  unbooked 
strapontin  on  the  midnight  train." 

"No  need,"  she  replied.  "He's  leaving  Clermont- 
Ferrand  to-morrow.  I'll  keep  to  my  original  pro- 
gramme and  enjoy  fresh  air  until  a  wire  summons  me 
back  to  Paris.  That's  to  say  if  you  can  do  with  me." 

"If  you  keep  on  looking  as  alluring  as  you  are 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  291 

this  evening,"  said  I,  "perhaps  I  mayn't  be  able 
to  do  without  you." 

"I  wonder  why  I've  never  been  able  to  fall  in 
love  with  a  man  of  your  type,  Tony,"  she  remarked 
in  her  frank,  detached  way.  "You  —  by  which  I 
mean  hundreds  of  men  like  you,  much  younger,  of 
course  —  you  are  of  my  world,  you  understand  the 
half-said  thing,  your  conduct  during  the  war  has 
been  irreproachable,  you've  got  a  heart  beneath  a 
cynical  exterior,  you've  got  brains,  you're  as  clean 
as  a  new  pin,  you're  an  agreeable  companion,  you 
can  turn  a  compliment  in  a  way  that  even  a  savage 
like  me  can  appreciate,  and  yet " 

"And  yet,'  I  interrupted,  "when  you're  pre- 
sented with  a  whole  paper,  row  on  row,  of  new  pins, 
you're  left  cold  because  choice  is  impossible. '  I 
smiled  sadly  and  sipped  my  wine.  "Now  I  know 
what  I  am,  one  of  a  row  of  nice,  clean,  English- 
made  pins." 

"It's  you  that  are  being  rude  to  yourself,  not  I," 
she  laughed.  "But  you  are  of  a  type  typical,  and 
in  your  heart  you're  very  proud  of  it.  You  wouldn't 
be  different  from  what  you  are  for  anything  in  the 
world." 

"I  would  give  a  good  deal,"  said 4,  "to  be  differ- 
ent from  what  I  am  —  but  —  from  the  ideal  of 
myself  —  no." 

She  was  quite  right.  Although  I  may  not  have 
sound  convictions,  thank  Heaven  I've  sacred  preju- 
dices. They  have  kept  me  more  or  less  straight 
in  my  unimaginative  British  fashion  during  a  re- 
spectable lifetime.  So  far  am  I  from  being  a  Phari- 
see, that  I  exclaim:  "Thank  God  I  am  as  other 
decent  fellows  are." 

We  circled  pleasantly  round  the  point  until  she 
returned  to  her  original  proposition  —  her  wonder 
that  she  had  never  been  able  to  fall  in  love  with  a 
man  of  my  type. 

"It's  very  simple,"  said  I.     "You  distrust  us. 


292  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

You  know  that  if  you  suddenly  said  to  one  of  us, 
*  Let  us  go  to  Greenland  and  wear  bearskins  and  eat 
blubber';  or,  'Let  us  fit  up  the  drawing-room  with 
incubators  for  East^end  babies  doomed  otherwise  to 
die,'  he  would  vehemently  object.  And  there  would 
be  rows  and  the  married  life  of  cat  and  dog." 

She  said:   "Am  I  really  as  bad  as  that,  Tony?" 

"You  are,"  said  I. 

She  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  replied,  after  a 
pause.  "In  the  depths  of  myself  I'm  as  conven- 
tional as  you  are.  That's  why  I  said  I  was  puzzled 
to  know  why  I  had  never  fallen  in  love  with  any 
one  of  you.  I  had  my  deep  reasons,  my  dear  Tony, 
for  saying  it.  I'm  bound  to  my  type  and  my  order. 
God  knows  I've  seen  enough  and  know  enough  to 
be  free.  But  I'm  not.  Last  night  showed  me  that 
I'm  not." 

"And  that's  final,  my  dear?"  said  I. 

She  helped  herself  to  salad  with  an  air  of  bravura. 
She  helped  herself,  to  my  surprise,  to  a  prodigious 
amount  of  salad. 

"As  final  as  death,"  she  replied. 

There  had  been  billed  about  the  place  a  Grand 
Concert  du  Soir  in  the  Casino  de  Royat.  The  cele- 
brated tenor,  M.  Horatio  Bakkus.  The  Casino 
having  been  burned  down  in  1918,  the  concerts  took 
place  under  the  bandstand  in  the  park. 

After  dinner  we  found  places,  among  the  multi- 
tude, on  the  Casino  Cafe  Terrace  overlooking  the 
bandstand,  and  listened  to  Bakkus  sing.  I  ex- 
plained Bakkus,  more  or  less,  to  Auriol.  Although 
she  could  not  accept  Lackaday  as  Petit  Patou,  she 
seemed  to  accept  Bakkus,  without  question,  as  a 
professional  singer.  The  concert  over,  he  joined 
us  at  our  little  japanned  iron  table,  and  acknowl- 
edged her  well-merited  compliments  —  I  tell  you, 
he  sang  like  a  minor  Canon  in  an  angelic  choir  — 
with,  well,  with  the  well-bred  air  of  a  minor  Canon 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  293 

in  an  angelic  choir.  With  easy  grace  he  dismissed 
himself  and  talked  knowledgeably  and  informatively 
of  the  antiquities  and  the  beauties  of  Auvergne.  To 
most  English  folk  it  was  an  undiscovered  country. 
We  must  steal  a  car  and  visit  Orcival.  Hadn't  I 
heard  of  it?  France's  gem  of  Romanesque  churches? 
And  the  Chateau  — i  ages  old  —  with  its  charmille  — 
the  towering  maze-like  walks  of  trees  kept  clipped 
in  scrupulous  formality  by  an  old  gardener  during 
the  war  —  the  charmille  designed  by  no  less  a 
genius  than  Le  Notre,  who  planned  the  wonders  of 
Versailles  and  the  exquisite  miniature  of  the  garden 
of  Nimes?  To-morrow  must  we  go. 

This  white-haired,  luminous-eyed  ascetic  —  he 
drank  but  an  orangeade  through  post-war  straws 
—  had  kept  us  spellbound  with  his  talk.  I  glanced 
at  Auriol  and  read  compliance  in  her  eye. 

"Will  you  accompany  us  ignorant  people  and  act 
as  cicerone?" 

"With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,"  said  Bakkus. 

"What  time  shall  we  start?" 

"Would  ten  be  too  early?" 

"Lady  Auriol  and  I  are  old  campaigners." 

"I  call  for  you  at  ten.    It  is  agreed?" 

We  made  the  compact.  I  lifted  my  glass.  He 
sputtered  response  through  the  post-war  straws 
resting  in  the  remains  of  his  orangeade.  He  rose 
to  go,  pleading  much  correspondence  before  going 
to  bed.  We  rose  too.  He  accompanied  us  to  the 
entrance  to  our  hotel.  At  the  lift,  he  said: 

"Can  you  give  me  a  minute?" 

"As  many  as  you  like,"  said  I,  for  it  was  still  early. 

We  sped  Lady  Auriol  upwards  to  her  repose,  and 
walked  out  through  the  hall  into  the  soft  August 
moonlight. 

"May  I  tread,"  said  he,  "on  the  most  delicate  of 
grounds?" 

"It  all  depends,"  said  I,  "on  how  delicately  you 
do  it." 


294  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

He  made  a  courteous  movement  of  his  hand  and 
smiled.  "I'll  do  my  best.  I  take  it  that  you're 
very  fully  admitted  into  Andrew  Lackaday's  con- 
fidence." 

"  To  a  great  extent,"  I  admitted. 

"And  —  forgive  me  if  I  am  impertinent  —  you 
have  also  that  of  the  lady  whom  we  have  just  left?" 

"Really,  my  dear  Bakkus '  I  began. 

"It  is  indeed  a  matter  of  some  importance,"  he 
interposed  quickly.  "It  concerns  Madame  Patou 
-Elodie.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  she  received  a  cer- 
tain impression  from  your  charming  luncheon  party 
of  yesterday.  Andrew,  as  you  are  aware,  is  not 
the  man  with  whom  a  woman  can  easily  make  a 
scene.  There  was  no  scene.  A  hint.  With  that 
rat-trap  air  of  finality  with  which  I  am,  for  my 
many  failings,  much  more  familiar  than  yourself, 
he  said:  'We  will  cancel  our  engagement  and  go 
to  Vichy.'  This  morning,  as  I  wrote,  I  was  called 
to  Clermont-Ferrand.  Madame  Patou,  you  under- 
stand, has  the  temperament  of  the  South.  Its 
generosity  is  apt  to  step  across  the  boundaries  of 
exaggeration.  In  my  capacity  of  friend  of  the 
family,  I  had  a  long  interview  with  her.  You  have 
doubtless  seen  many  such  on  the  stage.  I  must  say 
that  Andrew,  to  whom  the  whole  affair  appeared 
exceedingly  distasteful,  had  announced  his  inten- 
tion of  obeying  the  rules  of  common  good  manners 
and  leaving  his  farewell  card  on  Lady  Auriol. 
Towards  the  end  of  our  talk  it  entered  the  head  of 
Madame  Patou  that  she  would  do  the  same.  I 
pointed  out  the  anomaly  of  the  interval  between 
the  two  visits.  But  the  head  of  a  Marseillaise  is  an 
obstinate  one.  She  dressed,  put  on  her  best  hat  — 
there  is  much  that  is  symbolical  in  a  woman's  best 
hat,  as  doubtless  a  man  of  the  world  like  yourself 
has  observed  —  and  took  the  tram  with  me  to 
Royat.  We  alighted  at  the  further  entrance  to  the 
park,  and  came  plump  upon  a  leave-taking  between 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  295 

Lackaday  and  Lady  Auriol.  You  know  there  is  a 
turn  —  some  masking  shrubs  —  we  couldn't  help 
seeing  through  them.  She  was  for  rushing  forward. 
I  restrained  her.  A  second  afterwards,  Andrew 
ran  into  us.  For  me,  at  any  rate,  it  was  a  most 
unhappy  situation.  If  he  had  fallen  into  a  rage, 
like  ninety-nine  men  out  of  a  hundred,  and  accused 
us  of  spying,  I  should  have  known  how  to  reply. 
But  that's  where  you  can  never  get  hold  of  Andrew 
Lackaday.  He  scorns  such  things.  He  said  in  his 
ramrod  fashion:  'It's  good  of  you  to  come  to  meet 
me,  Elodie.  I  was  kept  longer  than  I  anticipated.' 
He  stopped  the  Clermont-Ferrand  tram,  nodded  to 
me,  and,  with  his  hand  under  Elodie's  elbow,  helped 
her  in." 

"May  I  ask  why  you  tell  me  all  this?"  I  asked. 

"Certainly,"  said  he,  and  his  dark  eyes  glittered 
in  the  moonlight.  "I  give  the  information  for  what 
it  may  be  worth  to  you  as  a  friend,  perhaps  as 
adviser,  of  both  parties." 

"You  are  assuming,  Mr.  Bakkus,"  I  answered 
rather  stiffly,  "that  Madame  Patou's  unfortunate 
impressions  are  in  some  way  justified." 

It  was  a  most  unpleasant  conversation.  I  very 
much  resented  discussing  Lady  Auriol  with  Horatio 
Bakkus. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  he.  "But  Fate  has  thrown 
you  and  me  into  analogous  positions  —  we  are  both 
elderly  men  —  me  as  between  Lackaday  and 
Madame  Patou,  you  as  between  Lady  Auriol  and 
Lackaday." 

"But,  damn  it  all,  man,"  I  cried  angrily,  "what 
have  I  just  been  saying?  How  dare  you  assume 
there's  anything  between  them  save  the  ordinary 
friendship  of  a  distinguished  soldier  and  an  English 
lady?" 

"If  you  can  only  assure  me  that  there  is  nothing 
but  that  ordinary  friendship,  you  will  take  a  weight 
off  my  mind  and  relieve  me  of  a  great  responsibility." 


296  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"I  can  absolutely  assure  you,"  I  cried  hotly,  "that 
by  no  remote  possibility  can  there  be  anything  else 
between  Lady  Auriol  Dayne  and  Petit  Patou." 

He  thrust  out  both  his  hands  and  fervently 
grasped  the  one  I  instinctively  put  forward. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you,  my  dear  Hylton.  That's 
exactly  what  I  wanted  to  know.  Au  revoir.  I  think 
we  said  ten  o'clock." 

He  marched  away  briskly.  With  his  white  hair 
gleaming  between  his  little  black  felt  hat  cocked  at 
an  angle  and  the  collar  of  his  flapping  old-fashioned 
opera-cloak,  he  looked  like  some  weird  bird  of  the 
night. 

I  entered  the  hotel  feeling  the  hot  and  cold  of  the 
man  who  has  said  a  damnable  thing.  Through  the 
action  of  what  kinky  cell  of  the  brain  I  had  called 
the  dear  gallant  fellow  "Petit  Patou,"  instead  of 
"Lackaday,"  I  was  unable  to  conjecture. 

I  hated  myself.  I  could  have  kicked  myself.  I 
wallowed  in  the  unreason  of  a  man  vainly  seeking 
to  justify  himself.  The  last  thing  in  the  world  I 
wanted  to  do  was  to  see  Horatio  Bakkus  again.  I 
went  to  bed  loathing  the  idea  of  our  appointment. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

LADY  AURIOL,  myself  and  the  car  met  punc- 
tually at  the  hotel  door  at  ten  o'clock.  There 
was  also  a  chasseur  with  Lady  Auriol's  dust- 
coat  and  binoculars,  and  a  concierge  with  advice. 
We  waited  for  Bakkus.  Auriol,  suddenly  bethink- 
ing herself  of  plain  chocolate,  to  the  consumption 
of  which  she  was  addicted  on  the  grounds  of  its 
hunger-satisfying  qualities,  although  I  guaranteed 
her  a  hearty  midday  meal  on  the  occasion  of  the 
present  adventure,  we  went  down  the  street  to  the 
Marquise  de  Sevigne  shop  and  bought  some.  This 
took  time,  because  she  fingered  over  several  varie- 
ties devastating  to  the  appetite.  I  paid  gladly.  If 
we  all  had  the  same  ideas  as  to  the  employment  of 
a  happy  day,  it  would  be  a  dull  world.  We  went 
back  to  the  car.  Still  no  Bakkus.  We  waited  again. 
I  railed  at  the  artistic  temperament.  Pure,  sheer 
bone  idleness,  said  I. 

"But  what  can  he  be  doing?"  asked  Auriol. 

I,  who  had  received  through  Lackaday  many 
lights  on  Bakkus's  character,  was  at  no  loss  to 
reply. 

"  Doing?  Why,  snoring.  He'll  awake  at  midday, 
stroll  round  here  and  expect  to  find  us  smiling  on 
the  pavement.  We  give  him  five  more  minutes." 

At  the  end  of  the  five  minutes  I  sent  the  concierge 
off  for  a  guide-book;  much  more  accurate,  I  de- 
clared, than  Bakkus  was  likely  to  be,  and  at  half- 
past  ten  by  my  watch  we  started.  Although  I 
railed  at  the  sloth  of  Bakkus,  I  rejoiced  in  his  absence. 
My  over-night  impression  had  not  been  dissipated 
by  slumber. 

"I'm  not  sorry,"  said  I,  as  we  drove  along.    "Our 

297 


298  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

friend  is  rather  too  much  of  a  professed  conversa- 
tionalist." 

"You  also  have  a  comfortable  seat  which  possibly 
you  would  have  had  to  give  up  to  your  guest,"  said 
Auriol. 

"How  you  know  me,  my  dear,"  said  I,  and  we 
rolled  along  very  happily. 

I  think  it  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  days  I  have 
ever  passed  in  the  course  of  a  carefully  spent  life. 
Auriol  was  at  her  best.  She  had  thrown  off  the 
harried  woman  of  affairs.  She  had  put  a  nice  little 
tombstone  over  the  grave  of  her  romance,  thus 
apparently  reducing  to  beautiful  simplicity  her 
previous  complicated  frame  of  mind.  For  aught  I 
could  have  guessed,  not  a  cloud  had  ever  dimmed 
the  Diana  serenity  of  her  soul.  If  I  said  that  she 
laid  herself  out  to  be  the  most  charming  of  com- 
panions, I  should  be  accusing  her  of  self-conscious- 
ness. Rather,  let  me  declare  her  to  have  been  so 
instinctively.  Vanity  apart,  I  stood  for  something 
tangible  in  her  life.  She  could  not  remember  the 
time  when  I  had  not  been  her  firm  friend.  Between 
my  first  offering  of  chocolates  and  my  last  over  a 
quarter  of  a  century  had  lapsed.  As  far  as  a  young 
woman  can  know  a  middle-aged  man,  she  knew  me 
outside  in.  If  she  came  to  me  for  my  sympathy, 
she  knew  that  she  had  the  right.  If  she  twitted  me 
on  my  foibles,  she  knew  that  I  granted  her  the 
privilege,  with  affectionate  indulgence. 

Now,  perhaps  you  may  wonder  why  I,  not  yet 
decrepit,  did  not  glide  ever  so  imperceptibly  in  love 
with  Lady  Auriol,  who  was  no  longer  a  dew-be- 
sprinkled bud  of  a  girl  and  therefore  beyond  the 
pale  of  my  sentimental  inclinations.  Well,  just  as 
she  had  avowed  that  she  could  not  fall  in  love  with 
a  man  of  my  type,  so  was  it  impossible  for  me  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  woman  of  hers.  Perhaps  some 
dark-eyed  devil  may  yet  lure  me  to  destruction,  or 
some  mild,  fair-haired,  comfortable  widow  may  en- 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  299 

tice  me  to  domesticity.  But  the  joy  and  delight  of 
my  attitude  towards  Auriol  was  its  placid  and 
benignant  avuncularity.  We  were  the  best  and 
frankest  friends  in  the  world. 

And  the  day  was  an  August  hazy  dream  of  a  day. 
We  wound  along  the  mountain  roads,  first  under 
overhanging  greenery  and  then,  almost  suddenly, 
remote,  in  blue  ether.  We  hung  on  precipices  over- 
looking the  rock-filled  valleys  of  old  volcanic  deso- 
lation. Basaltic  cliffs  rose  up  from  their  bed  of 
yellow  cornfields,  bare  and  stark,  yet,  in  the  noon- 
tide shimmer,  hesitating  in  their  eternal  defiance  of 
God  and  man.  We  ascended  to  vast  tablelands  of 
infinite  scrub  and  yellow  broom,  and  the  stern 
peaks  of  the  Puy  de  Dome  mountains,  a  while  ago 
seen  like  giants,  appeared  like  rolling  hillocks;  but 
here  and  there  a  little  white  streak  showed  that  the 
snow  still  lingered  and  would  linger  on  until  the 
frosts  of  autumn  bound  it  in  chains  to  await  the 
universal  winding-sheet  of  winter.  Climate  varied 
with  the  varying  altitude  of  the  route.  Here,  on  a 
last  patch  of  mountain  ground,  were  a  man  or  two 
and  a  woman  or  two  and  odd  children,  reaping  and 
binding;  there,  after  a  few  minutes'  ascent,  on 
another  sloping  patch,  a  solitary  peasant  ploughed 
with  his  team  of  oxen.  Everywhere  on  the  declivi- 
tous waysides,  tow-haired,  blue-eyed  children  guarded 
herds  of  goats,  as  their  forbears  had  done  in  the 
days  of  Vercingetorix,  the  Gaul.  Nowhere,  save  in 
the  dimly  seen  remotenesses  of  the  valleys,  where 
vestiges  of  red-roofed  villages  emerged  through  the 
fertile  summer  green,  was  there  sign  of  habitation. 
Whence  came  they,  these  patient  humans,  wresting 
their  life  from  these  lonely  spots  of  volcanic  wilder- 
nesses? 

Now  and  then,  on  a  lower  hump  of  mountain, 
appeared  the  ruined  tower  of  a  stronghold  fierce 
and  dominating  long  ago.  There  the  lord  had  all 
the  rights  of  the  seigneur,  as  far  as  his  eye  could 


300  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

reach.  He  had  men-at-arms  in  plenty,  and  could 
ride  down  to  the  valley  and  could  provision  himself 
with  what  corn  and  meat  he  chose,  and  could  return 
and  hold  high  revel.  But  when  the  winter  came,  how 
cold  must  he  have  been,  for  all  the  wood  with  its 
stifling  smoke  that  he  burned  in  his  crude  stone 
hall.  And  Madame  the  Countess,  his  wife,  and  her 
train  of  highborn  young  women  —  imagine  the 
cracking  chilblains  on  the  hands  of  the  whole  fair 
community. 

"Does  the  guide-book  say  that?"  asked  Auriol, 
on  my  development  of  this  pleasant  thesis. 

"Is  a  guide-book  human?" 

"It  doesn't  unweave  rainbows.  As  a  cicerone 
you're  impossible.  I  regret  Horatio  Bakkus." 

Still,  in  spite  of  my  prosaic  vision,  we  progressed 
on  an  enjoyable  pilgrimage.  I  am  not  giving  you 
an  itinerary.  I  merely  mention  features  of  a  day's 
whirl  which  memory  has  recaptured.  We  lunched 
in  that  little  oasis  of  expensive  civilization,  Mont 
Dore.  Incidentally  we  visited  Orcival,  with  its 
Bomanesque  church  and  chateau,  the  objective  of 
our  expedition,  and  found  it  much  as  Bakkus's 
glowing  eloquence  had  described.  From  elderly 
ladies  at  stalls  under  the  lee  of  the  church  we  bought 
picture  post  cards.  We  wandered  through  the 
deeply  shaded  walks  of  the  charmille,  as  trimly 
kept  as  the  maze  of  Hampton  Court  and  three 
times  the  height.  We  did  all  sorts  of  other  things. 
We  stopped  at  wild  mountain  gorges  alive  with  the 
rustle  of  water  and  aglow  with  wild-flowers.  We 
went  on  foot  through  one-streeted,  tumble-down  vil- 
lages and  passed  the  time  of  day  with  the  kindly  in- 
habitants. And  the  August  sun  shone  all  the  time. 

We  reached  Boyat  at  about  six  o'clock  and  went 
straight  up  to  our  rooms.  On  my  table  some  letters 
awaited  me;  but  instead  of  finding  among  them  the 
apology  from  Bakkus  which  I  had  expected,  I  came 
across  a  telephone  memorandum  asking  me  to  ring 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  301 

up  Monsieur  Patou  at  the  Hotel  Moderne,  Vichy, 
as  soon  as  I  returned. 

After  glancing  through  my  correspondence,  I 
descended  to  the  bureau  and  there  found  Auriol  in 
talk  with  the  concierge.  She  broke  off  and  waved  a 
telegram  at  me. 

"The  end  of  my  lotus-eating.  The  arrangements 
are  put  through  and  I'm  no  longer  hung  up.  So" 
—  she  made  a  little  grimace  —  '  it's  the  midnight 
train  to  Paris." 

"Surely  to-morrow  will  do,"  I  protested. 

"To-morrow  never  does,"  she  retorted. 

"As  you  will,"  said  I,  knowing  argument  was 
hopeless. 

Meanwhile  the  concierge  was  'allo'-ing  lustily 
into  the  telephone. 

"  I  ought  to  have  stuck  to  head-quarters,"  she 
said,  moving  away  into  the  lounge.  "It's  the  first 
time  I've  ever  mixed  up  business  and  —  other 
things.  Anyhow,"  she  smiled,  "I've  had  an  ador- 
able day.  I'll  remember  it  in  Arras." 

"Arras?" 

"Round  about."  She  waved  vaguely.  "I'll  know 
my  exact  address  to-morrow." 

"Please  let  me  have  it." 

"What's  the  good  unless  you  promise  to  write  to  me  ?" 

"I  swear,"  said  I. 

"Pardon,  Miladi,"  called  the  concierge,  receiver 
in  hand.  "  The  gare  de  Clermont-Ferrand  says  there 
is  no  place  salon-lit  or  coupe-lit  free  in  the  train 
to-night.  But  there  is  one  place  de  milieu,  premiere, 
not  yet  taken." 

"Reserve  it  then  and  tell  them  you're  sending  a 
chasseur  at  once  with  the  money."  She  turned  to 
me.  "My  luck's  in." 

"Luck!"  I  cried.  "To  get  a  middle  seat  in  a 
crowded  carriage,  for  an  all-night  journey,  with  the 
windows  shut?" 

She  laughed.     "Why  is  it,  my  dear  Tony,  you 


302  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

always  seem  to  pretend  there  has  never  been  any- 
thing like  a  war?" 

She  went  upstairs  to  cleanse  herself  and  pack.  I 
remained  master  of  the  telephone.  In  the  course  of 
time  I  got  on  to  the  Hotel  Moderne,  Vichy.  Even- 
tually I  recognized  Lackaday's  voice.  The  pre- 
liminaries of  fence  over,  he  said: 

"I  wonder  whether  it  would  be  trespassing  too 
far  on  your  friendship  to  ask  you  to  pay  your 
promised  visit  to  Vichy  to-morrow?" 

The  formality  of  his  English,  which  one  forgot 
when  talking  to  him  face  to  face,  was  oddly  accen- 
tuated by  the  impersonal  tones  of  the  telephone. 

"I'll  motor  over  with  pleasure,"  said  I.  The 
prospect  pleased  me.  It  was  only  sixty  kilometres. 
I  was  wondering  what  the  deuce  I  should  do  with 
myself  all  alone. 

"You're  sure  it  wouldn't  be  inconvenient?  You 
have  no  other  engagement?" 

I  informed  him  that,  my  early  morning  treatment 
over,  I  was  free  as  air. 

"Besides,"  said  I,  "I  shall  be  at  a  loose  end. 
Lady  Auriol's  taking  the  midnight  train  to  Paris." 

"Oh!"  said  he. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"'Allo!"  said  I. 

His  voice  responded:  "In  that  case,  I'll  come  to 
Clermont-Ferrand  by  the  first  train  and  see  you." 

"Nonsense,"  said  I. 

But  he  would  have  it  his  own  way.  Evidently  the 
absence  of  Lady  Auriol  made  all  the  difference.  I 
yielded. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  asked. 

"I'll  tell  you  when  I  see  you,"  said  he.  "I  don't 
know  the  trains,  but  I'll  come  by  the  first.  Your 
concierge  will  look  it  up  for  you.  Thanks  very 
much.  Good-bye. :' 

"But,  my  dear  fellow "  I  began. 

But  I  spoke  into  nothingness.    He  had  rung  off. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  303 

Auriol  and  I  spent  a  comfortable  evening  to- 
gether. There  was  no  question  of  Lackaday.  For 
her  part,  she  raised  none.  For  mine  —  why  should 
I  disturb  her  superbly  regained  balance  with  idle 
chatter  about  our  morrow's  meeting?  We  talked 
of  the  past  glories  of  the  day;  of  an  almost  forgotten 
day  of  disastrous  picnic  in  the  mountains  of  North 
Wales,  when  her  twelve-year-old  sense  of  humour 
detected  the  artificial  politeness  with  which  I  sought 
to  cloak  my  sodden  misery;  of  all  sorts  of  pleasant 
far-off  things;  of  the  war;  of  what  may  be  called 
the  war-continuation-work  in  the  devastated  dis- 
tricts in  which  she  was  at  present  engaged.  I  re- 
minded her  of  our  fortuitous  meetings,  when  she 
trudged  by  my  side  through  the  welter  of  rain  and 
liquid  mud,  smoking  the  fag-end  of  my  last  pipe  of 
tobacco. 

"One  lived  in  those  days,"  she  said  with  a  full- 
bosomed  sigh. 

"By  the  dispensation  of  a  merciful  Providence," 
I  said,  "one  hung  on  to  a  strand  of  existence." 

"It  was  fine!"  she  declared. 

"It  was — for  the  appropriate  adjective,"  said  I, 
"consult  any  humble  member  of  the  British  Army." 

We  had  a  whole,  long  evening's  talk,  which  did 
not  end  until  I  left  her  in  the  train  at  Clermont- 
Ferrand. 

On  our  midnight  way  thither,  she  said: 

"Now  I  know  you  love  me,  Tony." 

"Why  now?"  I  asked. 

"How  many  people  are  there  in  the  world  whom 
you  would  see  off  by  a  midnight  train,  three  or  four 
miles  from  your  comfortable  bed?" 

"  Not  many,"  I  admitted. 

"That's  why  I  want  you  to  feel  I'm  grateful." 
She  sought  my  hand  and  patted  it.  "I've  been  a 
dreadful  worry  to  you.  I've  been  through  a  hard 
time."  This  was  her  first  and  only  reference  during 
the  day  to  the  romance.  "I  had  to  cut  something 


304  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

out  of  my  living  setf,  and  I  couldn't  help  groaning 
a  bit.  But  the  operation's  over  —  and  I'll  never 
worry  you  again." 

At  the  station  I  packed  her  into  the  dark  and 
already  suffocating  compartment.  She  announced 
her  intention  to  sleep  all  night  like  a  dog.  She 
went  off,  in  the  best  of  spirits,  to  the  work  in  front 
of  her,  which  after  all  was  a  more  reasonable  cure 
than  tossing  about  the  Outer  Hebrides  in  a  five-ton 
yacht. 

I  drove  home  to  bed  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the 
perfect  altruist. 

I  was  reading  the  Monitew  du  Puy  de  Dome  on 
the  hotel  terrace  next  morning,  when  Lackaday 
was  announced.  He  looked  grimmer  and  more  care- 
worn than  ever,  and  did  not  even  smile  as  he  greeted 
me.  He  only  said  gravely  A,hat  it  was  good  of  me  to 
let  him  come  over.  I  offered  him  refreshment, 
which  he  declined. 

"You  may  be  wondering,"  said  he,  "why  I  have 
asked  for  this  interview.  But  after  all  I  have  told 
you  about  myself,  it  did  not  seem  right  to  leave 
you  in  ignorance  of  certain  things.  Besides,  you've 
so  often  given  me  your  kind  sympathy,  that,  as  a 
lonely  man,  I've  ventured  to  trespass  on  it  once 
more." 

"My  dear  Lackaday,  you  know  that  I  value 
your  friendship,"  said  I,  not  wishing  to  be  outdone 
in  courteous  phrase,  "and  that  my  services  are 
entirely  at  your  disposal." 

"I  had  better  tefl  you  in  a  few  words  what  has 
happened,"  said  he. 

He  told  me. 

Elodie  had  gone,  disappeared,  vanished  into 
space,  like  the  pearl  necklaces  which  Petit  Patou 
used  to  throw  at  her  across  the  stage. 

"But  how?  When?"  I  asked,  in  bewilderment; 
for  Lackaday  and  Elodie,  as  Les  Petit  Patou, 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  305 

seemed  as  indissoluble  as  William  and  Mary  or 
Pommery  and  Greno. 

He  had  gone  to  her  room  at  ten  o'clock  the  previ- 
ous morning,  her  breakfast  hour,  and  found  it  wide 
open  and  empty  save  for  the  femme  de  chambre  mak- 
ing great  clatter  of  sweeping.  He  stood  open- 
mouthed  on  the  threshold.  To  be  abroad  at  such 
an  hour  was  not  in  Elodie's  habits.  Their  train  did 
not  start  till  the  afternoon.  His  eye  quickly  caught 
the  uninhabited  bareness  of  the  apartment.  Not  a 
garment  straggled  about  the  room.  The  toilet  table, 
usually  strewn  with  a  myriad  promiscuously  ill- 
assorted  articles,  stared  nakedly.  There  were  no 
boxes.  The  cage  of  love-birds,  Elodie's  inseparable 
companions,  had  gone. 

"Madame ?" 

He  questioned  the  femme  de  chambre. 

"But  Madame  has  departed.  Did  not  Monsieur 
know?" 

Monsieur  obviously  did  not  know.  The  girl 
gave  hun  the  information  of  which  she  was  possessed. 
Madame  had  gone  in  an  automobile  at  six  o'clock. 
She  had  rung  the  bell.  The  femme  de  chambre  had 
answered  it.  The  staff  were  up  early  on  account  of 
the  seven  o'clock  train  for  Paris. 

"Then  Madame  has  gone  to  Paris,"  cried  Lacka- 
day. 

But  the  girl  demurred  at  the  proposition.  One 
does  not  hire  an  automobile  from  a  garage,  a  voiture 
de  luxe,  quoi?  to  go  to  the  railway  station,  when 
the  hotel  omnibus  would  take  one  there  for  a  franc 
or  two.  As  she  was  saying,  Madame  rang  her  bell 
and  gave  orders  for  her  luggage  to  be  taken  down. 
It  was  not  much,  said  Lackaday;  they  travelled 
light,  their  professional  paraphernalia  having  to 
be  considered.  Well,  the  luggage  was  taken 
down  to  the  automobile  that  was  waiting  at  the 
door,  and  Madame  had  driven  off.  'That  is  all 
she  knew. 


306  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

Lackaday  strode  over  to  the  bureau  and  assailed 
the  manager.  Why  had  he  not  been  informed  of 
the  departure  of  Madame?  It  apparently  never 
entered  the  manager's  polite  head  that  Monsieur 
Patou  was  ignorant  of  Madame  Patou's  move- 
ments. Monsieur  had  given  notice  that  they  were 
leaving.  Artists  like  Monsieur  and  Madame  Patou 
were  bound  to  make  special  arrangements  for  their 
tours,  particularly  nowadays  when  railway  travelling 
was  difficult.  So  Madame's  departure  had  occa- 
sioned no  surprise. 

"Who  took  her  luggage  down?"  he  demanded. 

The  dingy  waistcoated,  alpaca-sleeved  porter, 
wearing  the  ribbon  of  the  Medaille  Militaire  on  his 
breast,  came  forward.  At  six  o'clock,  while  he  was 
sweeping  the  hall,  an  automobile  drew  up  outside. 
He  said:  "Whom  are  you  come  to  fetch?  The 
Queen  of  Spain?"  And  the  chauffeur  told  him  to 
mind  his  own  business.  At  that  moment  the  bell 
rang.  He  went  up  to  the  etage  indicated.  The 
femme  de  chambre  beckoned  him  to  the  room  and  he 
took  the  luggage  and  Madame  took  the  bird-cage, 
and  he  put  Madame  and  the  luggage  and  the  bird- 
cage into  the  auto,  and  Madame  gave  him  two 
francs,  and  the  car  drove  off,  whither  the  porter 
knew  not. 

Although  he  put  it  to  me  very  delicately,  as  he 
had  always  conveyed  his  criticism  of  Elodie,  the 
fact  that  struck  a  clear  and  astounding  note  through 
his  general  bewilderment,  was  the  unprecedented 
reckless  extravagance  of  the  economical  Elodie. 
There  was  the  omnibus.  There  was  the  train.  Why 
the  car  at  the  fantastic  rate  of  one  franc  fifty  per 
kilometre,  to  say  nothing  of  the  one  franc  fifty  per 
kilometre  for  the  empty  car's  return  journey? 

"And  Madame  was  all  alone  in  the  automobile," 
said  the  porter,  by  way  of  reassurance.  "Pardon, 
Monsieur,"  he  added,  fading  away  under  Lackaday 's 
glare. 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  307 

"  I  cut  the  indignity  of  it  all  as  short  as  I  could," 
said  Lackaday,  "and  went  up  to  my  room  to  size 
things  up.  It  was  a  knock-down  blow  to  me  in 
many  ways,  as  you  no  doubt  can  understand.  And 
then  came  the  femme  de  chambre  with  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  me.  It  had  fallen  between  the  looking- 
glass  and  the  wall." 

He  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it 
to  me. 

"You  had  better  read  it." 

I  fitted  my  glasses  on  my  nose  and  read.  In  the 
sprawling,  strong,  illiterate  hand  I  saw  and  felt 
Elodie. 

Mon  petit  Andre 

But  I  must  translate  inadequately,  for  the  gram- 
mar and  phrasing  were  Elodesque. 

As  you  no  longer  love  me,  if  ever  you  have  loved  me, 
which  I  doubt,  for  we  have  made  un  drole  de  menage  ever 
since  we  joined  ourselves  together,  and  as  our  life  in  com- 
mon is  giving  you  unhappiness,  which  it  does  me  also, 
for  since  you  have  returned  from  England  as  a  General 
you  have  not  been  the  same,  and  indeed  I  have  never 
understood  how  a  General  [and  then  followed  a  couple 
of  lines  vehemently  erased].  And  as  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
a  burden  to  you,  but  desire  that  you  should  feel  yourself 
free  to  lead  whatever  life  you  like,  I  have  taken  the  de- 
cision to  leave  you  for  ever  —  pour  tout  jamais.  It  is  the 
best  means  to  regain  happiness. 

For  the  things  that  are  still  at  the  Cirque  Vendramin, 
do  with  them  what  you  will.  I  shall  write  to  Ernestine 
to  send  me  my  clothes  and  all  the  little  birds  I  love  so 
much.  Your  noble  heart  will  not  grudge  them  to  me, 
mon  petit  Andre. 

Praying  God  for  your  happiness,  I  am  always 

Your  devoted 

ELODIE 

I  handed  him  back  the  letter  without  a  word. 
What  could  one  say? 

"The  first  thing  I  did,"  he  said,  putting  the  letter 


308  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

back  in  his  pocket,  "was  to  ring  up  Bakkus,  to  see 
whether  he  could  throw  any  light  on  the  matter." 

"Bakkus  —  why,  he  cut  his  engagement  with  us 
yesterday." 

"The  damned  scoundrel,"  said  Lackaday,  "was 
running  away  with  Elodie." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HE  banged  his  hand  on  the  little  iron  table  in 
front  of  us  and  started  to  his  feet,  exploding 
at  last  with  his  suppressed  fury. 

"The  infernal  villain!" 

I  gasped  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  I  accomplished 
my  life  s  effort  in  self-control.  My  whole  being 
clamoured  for  an  explosion  equally  violent  of  com- 
pressed mirth.  I  ached  to  lie  back  in  my  chair  and 
shriek  with  laughter.  The  denouement  of  the  little 
drama  was  so  amaaingly  unexpected,  so  unex- 
pectedly ludicrous.  A  glimmer  of  responsive  hu- 
mour in  his  eyes  would  have  sent  me  off.  But  there 
he  stood,  with  his  grimmest  battle-field  face,  de- 
nouncing his  betrayer.  Even  a  smile  on  my  part 
would  have  been  insulting. 

Worked  up,  he  told  me  the  whole  of  the  astonish- 
ing business,  as  far  as  he  knew  it.  They  had  eloped 
at  dawn,  like  any  pair  of  young  lovers.  Of  that 
there  was  no  doubt.  The  car  had  picked  up  Bakkus 
at  his  hotel  in  Royat  —  Lackaday  had  the  land- 
lord's word  for  it  —  and  had  carried  the  pair  away, 
Heaven  knew  whither.  The  proprietor  of  the 
Royat  garage  deposed  that  Mr.  Bakkus  had  hired 
the  car  for  the  day,  mentioning  no  objective.  The 
runaways  had  the  whole  of  France  before  them. 
Pursuit  was  hopeless.  As  Lackaday  had  planned  to 
go  to  Vichy,  he  went  to  Vichy.  There  seemed 
nothing  else  to  do. 

"But  why  elope  at  dawn?"  I  cried.  "Why  all 
the  fellow's  unnecessary  duplicity?  Why,  in  the 
name  of  Macchiavelli,  did  he  seize  upon  my  ten 
o'clock  invitation  with  such  enthusiasm?  Why  his 

309 


310  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

private  conversation  with  me?     Why  throw  dust 
into  my  sleepy  eyes?    What  did  he  gam  by  it?" 

Lackaday  shrugged  his  shoulders.  That  part  of 
the  matter  scarcely  interested  him.  He  was  con- 
cerned mainly  with  the  sting  of  the  viper  Bakkus, 
whom  he  had  nourished  in  his  bosom. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  I  at  last,  after  a 
tiring  march  up  and  down  the  hot  terrace,  "you 
don't  seem  to  realize  that  Bakkus  has  solved  all 
your  difficulties,  ambulando,  by  walking  off,  or 
motoring  off,  with  your  great  responsibility." 

"You  mean,"  said  he,  coming  to  a  halt,  "that 
this  has  removed  the  reason  for  my  remaining  on 
the  stage?" 

"It  seems  so,"  said  I. 

He  frowned.  "I  wish  it  could  have  happened 
differently.  No  man  can  bear  to  be  tricked  and 
fooled  and  made  a  mock  of." 

"But  it  does  give  you  your  freedom,"  said  I. 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pockets. 
"I  suppose  it  does,"  he  admitted  savagely.  "But 
there's  a  price  for  everything.  Even  freedom  can 
be  purchased  too  highly."  i 

He  strode  on.  I  had  to  accompany  him,  per- 
spiringly.  It  was  a  very  hot  day.  We  talked  and 
talked;  came  back  to  the  startling  event.  We  had 
to  believe  it,  because  it  was  incredible,  as  Tertullian 
cheerily  remarked  of  ecclesiastical  dogma.  But 
short  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  eloping  with 
the  Statue  of  Liberty  in  New  York  Harbour  noth- 
ing could  seem  less  possible.  If  Bakkus  had  nur- 
tured nefarious  designs,  Good  Heavens!  he  could 
have  executed  them  years  before.  Well,  perhaps 
not.  When  one  hasn't  a  penny  in  one's  pocket 
even  the  most  cynical  pauses  ere  he  proposes  ro- 
mantic flight  with  a  lady  equally  penniless.  But 
since  April,  Bakkus  had  been  battening  on  the  good 
Archdeacon,  his  brother's  substantial  allowance. 
Why  had  he  tarried? 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  311 

"His  diabolical  cunning  lay  in  wait  for  a  weak 
moment,"  growled  Lackaday. 

All  through  this  discussion,  I  came  up  against  a 
paradox  of  human  nature.  Although  it  was  obvious 
that  the  unprincipled  Bakkus  had  rendered  my 
good  friend  the  service  of  ridding  him  of  the  re- 
sponsibility of  a  woman  whom  he  had  ceased  to 
love,  if  ever  he  had  loved  her  at  all,  a  woman,  who, 
for  all  her  loyal  devotion  through  loveless  years, 
had  stood  implacably  between  him  and  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  dreams,  yet  he  rampaged  against  his 
benefactor,  as  though  he  had  struck  a  fatal  blow  at 
the  roots  of  his  honour  and  his  happiness. 

"But  after  all,  man,  can't  you  see,"  he  cried  in 
protest  at  my  worldly  and  sophistical  arguments, 
"that  I've  lost  one  of  the  most  precious  things  in 
the  world?  My  implicit  faith  in  a  fellow-man. 
I  gave  Bakkus  a  brother's  trust.  He  has  betrayed 
it.  Where  am  I?  His  thousand  faults  have  been 
familiar  to  me  for  years.  I  discounted  them  for  the 
good  in  him.  I  thought  I  had  grasped  it."  He 
clenched  his  delicate  hand  in  a  passionate  gesture. 
"But  now"  —  he  opened  it —  'nothing.  I'm  at 
sea.  How  can  I  know  that  you,  whom  I  have  trusted 

more  than  any  other  man  with  my  heart's  secrets 
p" 

The  concierge  with  a  dusty  chauffeur  in  tow 
providentially  cut  short  this  embarrassing  apos- 
trophe. 

"Monsieur  le  Capitaine  Hylton?"  asked  the 
chauffeur. 

"Vest  moi." 

He  handed  me  a  letter.  I  glanced  at  the  writing 
on  the  envelope. 

"From  Bakkus!"  I  said.  "Tell  me"— to  the 
chauffeur  —  "how  did  you  come  by  it?" 

"Monsieur  charged  me  to  deliver  it  into  the 
hands  of  Monsieur  le  Capitaine.  I  have  this  mo- 
ment returned  to  Royat.' 


312  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"Ah,"  said  I.  "You  drove  the  automobile? 
Where  is  Monsieur  Bakkus?" 

"That,"  said  he,  "I  have  pledged  my  honour  not 
to  divulge." 

I  fished  in  my  pocket  for  some  greasy  rags  of 
paper  money  which  I  pressed  into  his  honourable 
hand.  He  bowed  and  departed.  I  tore  open  the 
envelope. 

"You  will  excuse  me?" 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Lackaday  curtly.  He  lit 
a  cigarette  and  stalked  to  the  end  of  the  terrace. 

The  letter  bore  neither  date  nor  address.    I  read: 

MY  DEAR  HYLTON, 

You  have  heard  of  Touchstone.  You  have  heard  of 
Audrey.  Shakespeare  has  doubtless  convinced  you  of  the 
inevitability  of  their  mating.  I  have  always  prided  my- 
self of  a  certain  Touchstone  element  in  my  nature.  There 
is  much  that  is  Audrey-esque  in  the  lady  whose  disappear- 
ance from  Clermont-Ferrand  may  be  causing  perturba- 
tion. As  my  Shakespearian  preincarnation  scorned  dis- 
honourable designs,  so  do  even  I.  The  marriage  of  Veuve 
Elodie  Marescaux  and  Horatio  Bakkus  will  take  place  at 
the  earliest  opportunity  allowed  by  French  law.  If  that 
delays  too  long,  we  shall  fly  to  England  where  an  Arch- 
bishop's special  licence  will  induce  a  family  Archdeacon 
to  marry  us  straight  away. 

My  flippancy,  my  dear  Hylton,  is  but  a  motley  coat. 

If  there  is  one  being  in  this  world  whom  I  love  and 
honour,  it  is  Andrew  Lackaday.  From  the  first  day  I 
met  him,  I,  a  cynical  disillusioned  wastrel,  he  a  raw  yet 
uncompromising  lad,  I  felt  that  here,  somehow,  was  a 
sheet  anchor  in  my  life.  He  has  fed  me  when  I  have 
been  hungry,  he  has  lashed  me  when  I  have  been  craven- 
hearted,  he  has  raised  me  when  I  have  fallen.  There  can 
be  only  three  beings  in  the  Cosmos  who  know  how  I  have 
been  saved  times  out  of  number  from  the  nethermost 
abyss  —  I  and  Andrew  Lackaday  and  God. 

I  passed  my  hand  over  my  eyes  when  I  read  this 
remarkable  outburst  of  devoted  affection  on  the  part 
of  the  seducer  and  betrayer  for  the  man  he  had 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  313 

wronged.  I  thought  of  the  old  couplet  about  the 
dissembling  of  love  and  the  kicking  downstairs. 
I  read  on,  however,  and  found  the  mystery  explained. 

The  time  has  come  for  me  to  pay  him,  in  part,  my 
infinite  debt  of  gratitude. 

You  may  have  been  surprised  when  I  wrung  your  hand 
warmly  before  parting.  Your  words  removed  every  hesi- 
tating scruple.  Had  you  said,  "there  is  nothing  between 
a  certain  lady  and  Andrew  Lackaday,"  I  should  have 
been  to  some  extent  nonplussed.  I  should  have  doubted 
my  judgment.  I  should  have  pressed  you  further.  If 
you  had  convinced  me  that  the  whole  basis  of  my  pro- 
jected action  was  illusory,  I  should  have  found  means  to 
cancel  the  arrangements.  But  remember  what  you  said. 
"There  can't  by  any  possibility  be  anything  between  Lady 
Auriol  Dayne  and  Petit  Patou." 

"Damn  the  fellow,"  I  muttered.  "Now  he's 
calmly  shifting  the  responsibility  on  to  me." 

And  I  swore  a  deep  oath  that  nevermore  would 
I  interfere  in  anybody  else's  affairs,  not  even  if 
Bolshevist  butchers  were  playing  with  him  before 
my  very  eyes. 

There,  my  dear  Hylton  (the  letter  went  on),  you  gave 
away  the  key  of  the  situation.  My  judgment  had  been 
unerring.  As  Petit  Patou,  our  friend  stood  beyond  the 
pale.  As  General  Lackaday,  he  stepped  into  all  the 
privileges  of  the  Enclosure.  Bound  by  such  ties  to  Madame 
Patou  as  an  honourable  and  upright  gentleman  like  our 
friend  could  not  dream  of  severing,  he  was  likewise  bound 
to  his  vain  and  heart-breaking  existence  as  Petit  Patou. 
A  free  man,  he  could  cast  off  his  mountebank  trappings 
and  go  forth  into  the  world,  once  more  as  General  Lacka- 
day, the  social  equal  of  the  gracious  lady  whom  he  loved 
and  whose  feelings  towards  him,  as  eyes  far  less  careless 
than  ours  could  see  at  a  glance,  were  not  those  of  placid 
indifference. 

The  solution  of  the  problem  dawned  on  me  like  an  in- 
spiration. Why  not  sacrifice  my  not  over-valued  celibacy 
on  the  altar  of  friendship?  For  years  Elodie  and  I  have 
been,  en  tout  bien  et  tout  honneur,  the  most  intimate  of 


314  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

comrades.  I  don't  say  that,  for  all  the  gold  in  the  Indies, 
I  would  not  marry  a  woman  out  of  my  brother's  Arch- 
deaconry. If  she  asked  me,  I  probably  should.  But  I 
should  most  certainly,  such  being  my  unregenerate  na- 
ture, run  away  with  the  gold  and  leave  the  lady.  For 
respectability  to  have  attraction  you  must  be  bred  in  it. 
You  must  regard  the  dog  collar  and  chain  as  the  great  and 
God-given  blessing  of  your  life.  The  old  fable  of  the  dog 
and  the  wolf.  But  I've  lived  my  life,  till  past  fifty,  as 
the  disreputable  wolf  —  and  so,  please  God,  will  I  remain 
till  I  die.  But,  after  all,  being  human,  I'm  quite  a  kind 
sort  of  wolf.  Thanks  to  my  brother  —  no  longer  wfll 
hunger  drive  the  wolf  abroad.  You  remember  Villon's 
lines: 

"Necessite  fait  gens  mesprendre 
Et  faim  sortir  le  loup  des  boys." 

I  shall  live  in  plethoric  ease  my  elderly  vulpine  life. 
But  the  elderly  wolf  needs  a  mate  for  his  old  age,  who  is 
at  one  with  him  in  his  (entirely  unsinful)  habits  of  disre- 
pute. Where  in  this  universe,  then,  could  I  find  a  fitter 
mate  than  Elodie? 

Which  brings  me  back,  although  I'm  aware  of  glaring 
psychological  flaws,  to  my  Touchstone  and  Audrey 
prelude. 

Writing,  as  I  am  doing,  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry,  I  don't 
pretend  to  Meredithean  analysis. 

Elodie's  refusal  to  marry  Andrew  Lackaday  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  a  woman's  illusions.  She  is  going  to 
marry  me  because  there's  no  possibility  of  any  kind  of 
illusion  whatsoever.  My  good  brother  whom,  I  grieve  to 
say,  is  in  the  very  worst  of  health,  informs  me  that  he 
has  made  a  will  in  my  favour.  Heaven  knows,  I  am  con- 
tented enough  as  I  am.  But,  the  fact  remains,  which  no 
doubt  will  ease  our  dear  friend's  mind,  that  Elodie's  future 
is  assured.  In  the  meanwhile  we  will  devote  ourselves  to 
the  cultivation  of  that  peculiarly  disreputable  sloth  which 
is  conducive  to  longevity,  releve  (according  to  the  gastro- 
nomic idiom)  on  my  part,  with  the  study  of  French  Heral- 
dry which  in  the  present  world  upheaval,  is  the  most  futile 
pursuit  conceivable  by  a  Diogenic  philosopher. 

I  can't  write  this  to  Lackaday,  who  no  doubt  is  saying 
all  the  dreadful  things  that  he  learned  with  our  armies 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  315 

in  Flanders.  He  would  not  understand.  He  would  not 
understand  the  magic  of  romance,  the  secrecy,  the  thrill 
of  the  dawn  elopement,  the  romance  of  the  coup  de  the&tre 
by  which  alone  I  was  able  to  induce  Elodie  to  co-operate 
in  the  part  payment  of  my  infinite  debt  of  gratitude. 

I  therefore  write  to  you,  confident  that,  as  an  urbane 
citizen  of  the  world  you  will  be  able  to  convey  to  the  man 
I  love  most  on  earth,  the  real  essence  of  this,  the  apologia 
of  Elodie  and  myself.  What  more  can  a  man  do  than  lay 
down  his  bachelor  life  for  a  friend? 

Yours  sincerely, 

HORATIO  BAKKUS 

P.S.  —  If  you  had  convinced  me  that  I  was  staring 
hypnotically  at  a  mare's  nest,  I  should  have  had  much 
pleasure  in  joining  you  on  your  excursion.  I  hope  you 
went  and  enjoyed  it  and  found  Orcival  exceeding  my  poor 
dithyrambic. 

I  had  to  read  over  this  preposterous  epistle  again 
before  I  fully  grasped  its  significance.  On  the  first 
reading  it  seemed  incredible  that  the  man  could  be 
sincere  in  his  professions;  on  the  second,  his  perfect 
good  faith  manifested  itself  in  every  line.  Had  I 
read  it  a  third  time,  I,  no  doubt,  should  have  re- 
garded him  as  an  heroic  figure,  with  a  halo  already 
beginning  to  shimmer  about  his  head. 

I  walked  up  to  Lackaday  at  the  end  of  the  terrace 
and  handed  him  the  letter.  It  was  the  simplest 
thing  to  do.  He  also  read  it  twice,  the  first  time 
with  scowling  brow,  the  second  with  a  milder  ex- 
pression of  incredulity.  He  looked  down  on  me  — 
I  don't  stand  when  a  handy  chair  invites  me  to  sit. 

"  This  is  the  most  amazing  thing  I've  ever  heard  of." 

I  nodded.  He  walked  a  few  yards  away  and 
attacked  the  letter  for  the  third  time.  Then  he 
gave  it  back  to  me  with  a  smile. 

"I  don't  believe  he's  such  an  infernal  scoundrel 
after  all." 

"Ah!"  said  I. 

He  leaned  over  the  balustrade  and  plunged  into 
deep  reflection. 


316  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

"If  it's  genuine,  it's  an  unheard  of  piece  of 
Quixotism." 

"I'm  sure  it's  genuine." 

"By  Gum!"  said  he.  He  gazed  at  the  vine-clad 
hill  in  the  silence  of  wondering  admiration. 

At  last  I  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"Let  us  lunch,"rsaid  I. 

We  strolled  to  the  upper  terrace. 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  he  remarked  on  the  way  thither, 
"how  much  sheer  goodness  there  is  in  humanity." 

"Pure  selfishness  on  my  part.  I  hate  lunching 
alone,"  said  I. 

He  turned  on  me  a  pained  look. 

"I  wasn't  referring  to  you." 

Then  meeting  something  quizzical  in  my  eye,  he 
grinned  his  broad  ear-to-ear  grin  of  a  child  of  six. 

We  lunched.  We  smoked  and  talked.  At  every 
moment  a  line  seemed  to  fade  from  his  care-worn 
face.  At  any  rate,  everything  was  not  for  the  worst 
in  the  worst  possible  of  worlds.  I  think  he  felt  his 
sense  of  freedom  steal  over  him  in  his  gradual  glow. 
At  last  I  had  him  laughing  and  mimicking,  in  his 
inimitable  way  —  a  thing  which  he  had  not  done 
for  my  benefit  since  the  first  night  of  our  acquaint- 
ance —  the  elderly  and  outraged  Moignon  whom 
he  proposed  to  visit  in  Paris,  for  the  purpose  of 
cancelling  his  contracts.  As  for  Vichy  —  Vichy 
could  go  hang.  There  were  ravening  multitudes  of 
demobilized  variety  artists  besieging  every  stage- 
door  in  France.  He  was  letting  down  nobody; 
neither  the  managements  nor  the  public.  Moignon 
would  find  means  of  consolation. 

"My  dear  Hylton,"  said  he,  "now  that  my  faith 
in  Bakkus  is  not  only  restored  but  infinitely  strength- 
ened, and  my  mind  is  at  rest  concerning  Elodie,  I 
feel  as  though  ten  years  were  lifted  from  my  life. 
I'm  no  longer  Petit  Patou.  The  blessed  relief  of 
it!  Perhaps,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "the  dis- 
cipline has  been  good  for  my  soul." 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  317 

"In  what  way?" 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  replied  thoughtfully,  "in  my 
profession  I  always  was  a  second-rater.  I  was 
aware  of  it;  but  I  was  content,  because  I  did  my 
best.  In  the  Army  my  vanity  leads  me  to  believe 
I  was  a  first-rater.  Then  I  had  to  go  back,  not  only 
to  second-rate,  but  to  third-rate,  having  lost  a  lot 
in  five  years.  It  was  humiliating.  But  all  the 
same  I've  no  doubt  it  has  been  the  best  thing  in 
the  world  for  me.  The  old  hats  will  still  fit." 

"If  I  had  a  quarter  of  your  vicious  modesty," 
said  I,  "  I  would  see  that  I  turned  it  into  a  dazzling 
virtue.  What  are  your  plans?" 

"You  remember  my  telling  you  of  a  man  I  met 
in  Marseilles  called  Arbuthnot?" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "the  fellow  who  shies  at  coco-nuts 
in  the  Solomon  Islands." 

He  grinned,  and  with  singular  aptness  he  replied: 

"I'll  cable  him  this  afternoon  and  see  whether  I 
can  still  have  three  shies  for  a  penny." 

We  discussed  the  proposal.  Presently  he  rose. 
He  must  go  to  Vichy,  where  he  had  to  wind  up  cer- 
tain affairs  of  Les  Petit  Patpu.  To-morrow  he 
would  start  for  Paris  and  await  Arbuthnot's  reply. 

"And  possibly  you'll  see  Lady  Auriol,"  I  haz- 
arded, this  being  the  first  time  her  name  was  men- 
tioned. 

His  brow  clouded  and  he  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"I  think  not,"  said  he.  And,  as  I  was  about  to 
protest,  he  checked  me  with  a  gesture.  "That's 
all  done  with." 

"My  dear,  distinguished  idiot,"  said  I. 

"It  can  never  be,"  he  declared  with  an  air  of 
finality. 

"You'll  break  Bakkus's  heart." 

"Sorry,"  said  he. 

"You'll  break  mine." 

"Sorrier  still.  No,  no,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said 
gently,  "don't  let  us  talk  about  that  any  more." 


318  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

After  he  had  gone  I  experienced  a  severe  attack 
of  anticlimax,  and  feeling  lonely  I  wrote  to  Lady 
Auriol.  In  the  coarse  phraseology  of  the  day,  I 
spread  myself  out  over  that  letter.  It  was  a  piece 
of  high-class  descriptive  writing.  I  gave  her  a 
beautiful  account  of  the  elopement  and,  as  an  inter- 
esting human  document,  I  enclosed  a  copy  of 
Bakkus's  letter.  As  I  had  to  wait  a  day  or  two  for 
her  promised  address  —  her  letter  conveying  it  gave 
me  no  particular  news  of  herself  —  I  did  not  re- 
ceive her  answer  until  I  reached  London. 

It  was  characteristic: 

MY  DEAR  TONY, 

Thanks  for  your  interesting  letter.  I've  adopted  a 
mongrel  Irish  Terrier  —  the  most  fascinating  skinful  of 
sin  the  world  has  ever  produced.  I'll  show  him  to  you 
some  day.  Yours, 

AUBIOL 

I  wrote  back  in  a  fury:  something  about  never 
wanting  to  see  her  or  her  infernal  dog  as  long  as  I 
lived.  I  was  angry  and  depressed.  I  don't  know 
why.  It  was  none  of  my  business.  But  I  felt  that 
I  had  been  scandalously  treated  by  this  young 
woman.  I  felt  that  I  had  subscribed  to  their  futile 
romance  an  enormous  fund  of  interest  and  sym- 
pathy. This  chilly  end  of  it  left  me  with  a  sense 
of  bleak  disappointment.  I  was  not  rendered 
merrier  a  short  while  afterwards  by  an  airy  letter 
from  Horatio  Bakkus  enclosing  a  flourishing  an- 
nouncement in  French  of  his  marriage  with  the 
Veuve  Elodie  Marescaux,  nee  Figasso.  "Behold 
me,"  said  the  fellow,  "cooing  with  content  in  tJhe 
plenitude  of  perfect  connubiality."  I  did  not  desire 
to  behold  him  at  all.  His  cooing  left  me  cold.  I 
bore  on  my  shoulders  the  burden  of  the  tragio- 
comedy  of  Auriol  and  Lackaday. 

If  she  had  never  seen  him  as  Petit  Patou,  all 
might  have  been  well,  hi  spite  of  Elodie  who  had 


THE  MOUNTEBANK  319 

been  somewhat  destructive  of  romantic  glamour. 
But  the  visit  to  the  circus,  I  concluded,  finished 
the  business.  Beneath  the  painted  monster  in 
green  silk  tights  the  dignified  soldier  whom  she 
loved  was  eclipsed  for  ever.  And  then  a  thousand 
commonplace  social  realities  arose  and  stood  stonily 
in  her  path.  And  Lackaday  —  well!  I  suppose  he 
was  faced  with  the  same  unscalable  stone  wall  of 
convention. 

Lackaday's  letters  were  brief,  and,  such  as  they 
were,  full  of  Arbuthnot.  He  was  sailing  as  soon  as 
he  could  find  a  berth.  I  gave  the  pair  up,  and  went 
to  an  elder  brother's  place  in  Inverness-shire  for 
rest  and  shooting  and  rain  and  family  criticism  and 
such-like  amenities.  Among  my  fellow-guests  I 
found  young  Charles  Verity-Stewart  and  Evadne 
nominally  under  governess  tutelage.  The  child 
kept  me  sane  during  a  dreadful  month.  Having 
been  sick  of  the  sound  of  guns  going  off  during  the 
war,  I  found,  to  my  dismay,  scant  pleasure  in  ex- 
plosions followed  by  the  death  of  little  birds.  And 
then  —  I  suppose  I  am  growing  old  —  the  sport, 
in  which  I  once  rejoiced,  involved  such  hours  of  wet 
and  weary  walking  that  I  renounced  it  without  too 
many  sighs.  But  I  had  nothing  to  do.  My  pre-war 
dilettante  excursions  into  the  literary  world  had 
long  since  come  to  an  end.  I  was  obsessed  by  the 
story  of  Lackaday;  and  so,  out  of  sheer  taedium 
vitas,  and  at  the  risk  of  a  family  quarrel,  I  shut 
myself  up  with  the  famous  manuscript  and  my  own 
reminiscences,  and  began  to  reduce  things  to  such 
coherence  as  you  now  have  had  an  opportunity  of 
judging. 

It  was  at  breakfast,  one  morning  in  November, 
that  the  butler  handed  me  a  telegram.  I  opened 
the  orange  envelope.  The  missive,  reply  paid,  ran: 

Will  you  swear  that  there  are  real  live  cannibals  in  the 
Solomon  Islands?  If  not,  it  will  be  the  final  disillusion  of 
my  life.  —  AURIOL 


320  THE  MOUNTEBANK 

I  passed  the  paper  to  my  neighbour  Evadne, 
healthily  deep  in  porridge.  She  glanced  at  it,  glass 
of  milk  in  one  hand,  poised  spoon  in  the  other. 
With  the  diabolical  intuition  of  eternal  woman  and 
the  ironical  imperturbability  of  the  modern  maiden, 
she  raised  her  candid  eyes  to  mine  and  declared: 

"She's  quite  mad.  But  I  told  you  all  about  it 
years  ago. ' 

This  lofty  calmness  I  could  not  share.  I  suddenly 
found  myself  unable  to  stand  another  minute  of  Scot- 
land. Righteous  indignation  sped  me  to  London. 

I  found  the  pah*  together  in  Lady  Auriol's  drawing- 
room.  Without  formal  greeting  I  apostrophized  them. 

"You  two  have  behaved  disgracefully.  Here 
have  I  been  utterly  miserable  about  you,  and  all 
the  time  you've  left  me  in  the  dark." 

"Where  we  were  ourselves,  my  dear  Hylton,  I 
assure  you,"  said  Lackaday. 

"I  shed  light  as  soon  as  I  could,"  said  Auriol. 
"We  bumped  into  each  other  last  Monday  evening 
in  Bond  Street  and  found  it  was  us." 

"I  told  her  I  was  going  to  the  Solomon  Islands." 

"And  I  thought  I  wanted  to  go  there  too." 

"From  which  I  gather,"  said  I,  "that  you  are 
going  to  get  married." 

Lady  Auriol  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"Oh  dear  no." 

I  was  really  angry.  "Then  what  on  earth  made 
you  drag  me  all  the  way  from  the  North  of  Scotland?  " 

"To  congratulate  us,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Lacka- 
day. "We  were  married  this  morning." 

"I  think  you're  a  pair  of  fools,"  said  I  later,  not 
yet  quite  mollified. 

"Why  —  for  getting  married?"  asked  Auriol. 

"No,  said  I.  "For  putting  it  off  to  a  fortuitous 
bump  in  Bond  Street." 

THE    END 


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